


Waiting for the Miracle

by Portrait_of_a_Fool



Category: Falling Skies
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Eating Disorder, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Imagery, M/M, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2456501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portrait_of_a_Fool/pseuds/Portrait_of_a_Fool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom thought nothing could be worse than the alien Armageddon, but when he’s left devastated by a personal tragedy, he realizes how wrong he was. Adrift, depressed and in danger of alienating his children, Tom is coming apart at the seams. A chance encounter with Pope shows Tom that he is the one person who seems to truly understand what he’s going through. In a world that seems like it’s always one second from dying, Tom's relationship with Pope becomes something more than he would have ever thought. Despite himself, Tom starts to want to live again. It's not an easy kind of love story for them and not everyone is happy about it, but Tom's belief that some things are worth fighting for has never changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fine Art of Falling Apart

**Author's Note:**

> This goes AU around 3x9, so please keep that in mind.
> 
>  **There are things of a potentially upsetting nature in this that I have not warned for because I feel that would be spoilery. If that worries you then please close the tab now.** Do not lecture me in comments about how there _should_ be XYZ warning or how I _need_ to do such-and-such because I'm not going to change my mind. The first sentence of the first chapter should be enough that readers get the idea, though I hope they will put aside any misgivings and give the story a chance.

_Someone just died, but I’m still alive and yet, I don’t have a soul anymore._

— Andre Breton   
“The Forest in the Axe”

It has been one month, three days and ten hours since Matt died. Tom doesn’t think he’s truly slept since he heard his youngest son’s last breath rattle softly from his lungs. He has no appetite or any real desire to get up and move, but moving is all he seems to do. He feels like a fish: if he stops, if he stands still for too long then he will die. Brushing his teeth is a chore; his arm feels like it weighs a ton as he lifts the brush to his mouth twice a day. Tom prowls the halls of their shelter and steps out into the night to walk in the unsafe dark; his gun an afterthought where it rests against his shoulder.

He still hasn’t wept over Matt; the tears don’t seem to be there. Tom stood at Matt’s grave and stared into the deep, dark hole with eyes so dry they’d felt as though they had sand in them. On either side of him, Hal and Ben had both wept openly. Even Weaver had choked up as he tried to give the eulogy because Tom hadn’t been able to. He’d _wanted_ to, but the words would not come anymore than the tears would. _He’s dead and it’s not fucking fair_ , was the best he’d been able to come up with. He’d traced the words on the wall of his cold bedroom the night before the funeral until his fingertip was raw.

People look at him strangely for his lack of visible anguish, like they don’t think he’s grieving properly. If a child dies then the appropriate thing to do is wail about it—but not too much. Too much mourning is suspicious, it looks like overacting, like maybe it’s a way of hiding guilt or better put, guiltiness born of happiness—one less mouth to feed, one less warm body to look after and worry about.

The night Matt died, Tom was dozing at his bedside, but something yanked him awake so hard and fast it had been painful. Matt was pale with faintly bluish lips as the pneumonia had its terrible way with him. Then he’d heard it: that last, soft breath… then nothing. All Tom could think was, _This is not_ really _happening, it’s only a bad dream. I’ll wake up soon._

He’s still waiting for that, for the moment he opens his eyes onto a normal day with normal colors, not the greys and blacks everything seems to be draped in. It can’t be real because there was Anne and Lexi first and then Matt… but Matt only had a cough, it was no big deal. That’s what he told himself anyway.

Yet on a cool spring night, Matt drifted out of Tom’s reach forever. There was nothing to shoot at or blow up or even attempt to bargain with. Pneumonia did not listen to threats; it did not have a conscience or anything approaching sympathy. Then again, neither do their would-be alien overlords, so perhaps in that regard pneumonia is an alien, but the battlefield is different and they didn’t have enough weapons to fight it with.

In a world where even going out for supplies is potentially fatal, people stop thinking anything from the _inside_ can get them. Aliens are the threat, the number one cause of death among humans. _They_ are the sickness that needs stamping out. All of the other seemingly antiquated methods of dying barely register. Things like pneumonia, a disease which can easily be fatal if not treated properly. And with supplies like antibiotics in short supply and high demand, well… pneumonia cannot be treated properly.

People say for Tom to “take some time” or they jazz it up with a bit of a different twist in phrasing: “take all the time you need”. He doesn’t know how to tell them that there will _never_ be enough time for this. Even though they look at him oddly, people also still come to him, too; always wanting something or needing help. They _say_ he should take some time, but Tom doesn’t think that’s what they really want because at their core human beings are selfish. What that selfishness demands is that they come first, that they always get their fair share of everything and everyone because their survival is the most important thing to them.

It’s not even a terrible trait, not really, not if you tilt your head and look at it just right. Human beings did not make it to the top of the food chain by being kind. That their forebears learned that cooperation ensured better odds of survival does not mean _altruism_. Tom didn’t always believe those things, but now he does because Matt and Anne and Lexi are all _dead_ and people are saying, _Take all the time you need_ only to follow it up with, _But first I need your help…_. Tom keeps giving it, too, because he doesn’t know what else to do and without something to keep himself busy he’s afraid that he will fall down and never get up again.

They buried Matt in a field full of wildflowers, the riot of color a stark and horrifically cheerful backdrop to one of the saddest days of Tom’s life. Each night he doesn’t take on an extra patrol, he slips from the underground with the intention of going to visit his little boy’s final resting place. He means to stand in that field under the moonlight with the waving flowers whispering all around him in the moist, cool breeze and tell Matt he’s sorry. He can even visualize touching the wooden cross at the head of Matt’s grave, but that’s what draws him up because he’s got a funny thought about that. He always thinks, _Better it was made of bone_. Bone would last longer than wood. Wood rots.

Tom clears his throat and shakes his head so violently it actually makes his neck ache, tense muscles bunching and rolling together. He doesn’t want to think about things _rotting_ , not when he’s also imagining his son’s grave. He walks onward, feet gritting against the filthy remains of the street. He scratches his beard and idly thinks: _How did this happen?_

 _I didn’t pay enough attention to him when he started coughing, that’s_ how. _I asked if he was okay and when he said he was, I believed him. Just. Like. That._

Tom stops again and blinks against the darkness, tells himself to _just stop, goddamnit_. Even if he had caught it on the very first cough and hauled Matt off to Lourdes immediately, there’s a good chance the outcome would have been the same. They don’t even know what _kind_ of pneumonia it was because they don’t have the equipment to do the tests anymore. All they managed to rule out was infectious pneumonia because that was easy—no one else got sick; therefore, it was not contagious.

Tom crouches down by the fallen remains of a wall and looks at a cluster of yellow flowers on woody stems that are growing beside it. The field was full of these little yellow flowers with waxy looking petals that actually shined in the bright spring sunshine. Tom wonders what these flowers are called, wonders if they’re poisonous because he saw jimson weed and white snakeroot out in the field that day, too. He’d looked everywhere but at the grave until the final moment. Then he’d gotten lost in the blackness of it; the craggy earthen walls, the rectangular mouth that was going to gobble his Matty up.

Something shudders through him and sends him back to his feet, back to walking. The quivering of a dying bird thrums in his muscles, making him feel as though he is vibrating. He tries to remember the last time he ate and cannot. He doesn’t go to breakfast anymore and if someone—usually Hal or Weaver—brings him something, he says _thank you_ and throws it out when they’re gone again. He shouldn’t waste food, it’s a really horrible thing for him to do, but he can’t stand the sight of it. Matt hated oatmeal and now that’s all there is and it makes Tom want to scream.

He picks at his dinners though, so fine, it’s good enough—he’s eating something. He’s remembering again how to smile in the right places, too, how to interject his thoughts into the conversation. Just last night he told Ben, Hal, Maggie and Weaver that white snakeroot is what killed Abraham Lincoln’s mother because he’d been thinking about the field as well as thinking that he should try to make conversation.

Tom knows now that this is what “acting normal” feels like. He also knows he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it.

His wandering leads him through a hole in a brick wall that reveals the husk of a courtyard. This used to be a mansion, one of those great old Charleston homes and most of it is still standing, its beautiful skeleton limned by the moonlight. There are roses here, Tom can smell them and as he walks deeper into this secret, overgrown garden, he sees them. They’re pale in the light of the moon, pink is his guess. The bushes are laden with blooms, the limbs drooping under the weight of their dew-sprinkled heads.

Tom closes his eyes and breathes in, catches a whiff of mock orange and wisteria mingling with the heady scent of the roses. There is the sleepy drone of insects amid the long grass that leans over a flagstone path. For a second, he can easily imagine that when he opens his eyes the world will be right again and not the godforsaken mess it has become. It’ll be like he hit rewind, everything will go back to the way it was before, all the way back to Ben needing an inhaler and Rebecca being alive. Anne Glass will never be a concern or a name he learns, Lexi will not even be a twinkle in Tom’s eye, Matt will not die so quietly and sadly.

When he opens his eyes, nothing has changed, but he knew that would be the case anyway. Hope for what is gone is a waste of time, but like damn near everyone else, Tom spends an inordinate amount of his free time clinging to it.

The whitewashed shape of a rocking chair glimmers in the overhang of a deep porch and Tom threads his way through the undergrowth toward it. He’s not worried about Skitters or air raids and maybe he ought to be, but he can’t muster up the give-a-damn. For a little while all he wants to do is sit in a rocking chair and breathe in the scent of this once magnificent garden that’s still giving its all. He wants to appreciate it for what it is—something lovely and alive.

He settles into the rocking chair, gingerly easing his weight down on the weathered wooden seat and listening to it groan. When he’s sure it’ll hold him, he allows himself to relax as much as he possibly can. He’s shirking responsibilities by taking this time to himself, but then he reasons: _Isn’t that what I’m_ supposed _to be doing?_ The settlement is asleep anyway, except for the prowling guards staked out around the perimeter and maybe a few rowdy drunks down at Pope’s bar.

Tom pushes the toe of his boot against the brick floor of the porch and lets the motion of the rocker lull him a bit. He stares out at the wild tangle of the garden, breathes in the sweetly mingling scents and doesn’t really _see_ any of it. At least not until the clouds shift and a soft gleam catches his eye. Tom leans forward in the rocker to see better and his breath catches in his throat. There, among a bed of gladiolus, are more of those yellow flowers with woody stems. Their yellow is so bright even in the silver wash of the moonlight that he doesn’t know how he missed them. It’s like the flowers are _taunting_ him, reminding him of the main duty he is shirking: visiting Matt’s grave so he can offer his apologies to the uncaring soil.

No, better yet, the flowers are _haunting_ him; his very own Marley to remind him of his guilt. To remind him of his _failure_.

He feels the same dying bird quiver in his muscles as he did before and his breath gets stuck in his throat. The flowers wave in the soft breeze and the silver smoke of mist twines in and out of the leaves and grass like a spectral panther. Tom tries to find air and he tries to blink, but he can do neither.

The first tears that fall are so hot they burn his cheeks. Then he remembers how to blink and the tears become a flood. He makes some strange sound in his throat, a strangled back cry as he hunches over on himself. The dying bird quiver becomes shakes so hard his teeth rattle. He has a second to wonder how this level of tears would be accepted: Too much or not enough? Then he stops thinking, too occupied with trying to breathe and not doing a very good job of it. His eyes are closed, but he can still see the yellow flowers, crowding over Matt’s grave now while honeysuckle climbs the wooden cross. That damn cross that will rot away to splinters eventually and leave his child’s grave unmarked.

Tom is no stranger to weeping, but he’s never cried this hard in all his life. He can hear the sounds he’s making, but he’s not actually _aware_ that he is the source. He slides out of the rocking chair onto his knees and kneels there with the sharp brick edge of the porch biting bruises into his flesh. His hands are braced on the ground, he can feel bugs crawling over his fingers, can feel dirt bedding up beneath his fingernails. _Bugs and dirt_ rips another sob out him so hard that it hurts his chest because _bugs and dirt_ are how bodies turn to bone in the ground. The dirt shelters the insects while they do their gruesome work of eating flesh that once moved and lived. They eat away lips that once smiled and eyes that once looked up at the clouds when they were five and said, _I see a dragon, Daddy!_

He cries until he gags then vomits, spitting up bitter bile because there’s nothing else in his stomach. It only seems to spur him on and he coughs and splutters around his awful weeping. His face is on fire and the strain of it is making his head pound; there is snot on his upper lip, he can taste the slippery saltiness of it in his mouth. Tom digs his fingers into the dirt and tries to stop this shameful madness, tries to shut it down and put it back wherever it was hiding, but he can’t. He’s hiccupping now, stomach roiling and eyes throbbing and burning and he still cannot stop crying.

A hand on his back startles him so badly he yells around a sob, producing a sound a lot like the yelp of a kicked dog. Tom scrambles back and knocks into the rocking chair, his rifle falling over with a clatter that he barely notices, but it doesn’t go off. Looking up, he sees Pope standing at the edge of the porch. He looks calmly back at Tom then leans forward and thrusts a bottle of whiskey at him.

“Drink,” he says. “It makes things suck less.”

Tom wants to argue that it doesn’t, wants to tell Pope that it’s likely he’s an alcoholic, but he doesn’t do that either because right now he wants a drink more than anything else. He takes the bottle from him, using both hands to steady it because he’s shaking so badly. When he lowers it, he takes the first deep breath he’s had in at least twenty minutes.

Pope’s digging in his coat pocket and when he comes up with a wad of napkins he’s pillaged from somewhere, he offers them to Tom.

“You might wanna wipe your face, Mason.”

Tom snatches them from him, hears the soft sound of the cheap paper ripping and sees the flutter of it left behind in Pope’s fingers. He scrubs at his face, holding onto the whiskey with his other hand. Pope sits down on the side of the porch and looks out at the garden.

Of all the people to find him bawling his eyes out, Tom wishes it wasn’t Pope, who was conspicuously absent from Matt’s funeral. Pope with his hateful sarcasm and smart ass mouth. Tom risks another pull from the bottle and waits for some remark from Pope, but one doesn’t come, he’s not even looking at Tom.

“What are you doing here?” Tom asks when he can trust himself to speak, when he thinks that maybe Pope is actually being _decent_ for a change.

“Raping and pillaging,” Pope says as he leans over and takes the whiskey from Tom. “You know, the usual.”

Tom rolls his eyes, but is surprised to feel a flutter of amusement at Pope’s words.

“Seriously, what are you doing?” Tom says.

Pope shakes his head.

“Walking back from hunting, Professor,” he says. He reaches over beside him and picks up two rabbits tied together with string, long ears dangling and casting shadows along the bricks. “Don’t worry your little head about it.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Tom says. “I was just wondering.”

“Well, now you know,” Pope says. “I heard something and decided to check it out. Imagine my surprise when I found you.”

Tom makes a noncommittal grunting sound in the back of his throat and swallows against the lump that still lingers there. He wipes his eyes, unsurprised to find the back of his hand wet with more tears. He’s not actively weeping, but he’s still leaking like a faucet. He wishes Pope would go away; he kind of wants him to stay, too, though.

John Pope may be a lot of things, including a criminal and a first-class asshole, but he’s also the _only_ person Tom knows who doesn’t expect or want a damn thing from him. Tom even trusts him, something he’d never dare say out loud—especially not to Pope because he’d do everything he could to destroy that trust; Tom’s noticed that about him. What’s more is Tom _likes_ Pope and sometimes that galls him because there are plenty of reasons for him _not_ to like the guy. He pisses Tom off more than any other person ever has, but he challenges him, too, he _pushes_ him. Another thing Tom won’t ever tell Pope—and he can barely admit it to himself some days—is that he considers Pope his _friend_. Tom accepts that he may be more screwed up in the head than even he is willing to acknowledge most of the time

The more he thinks about it though, the more he finds he is _glad_ that it was Pope who found him. He thought he was dismayed, but that was basic, normal—no one likes being caught in the middle of an emotional breakdown. But Pope won’t try to comfort him, he won’t feed him line after line of trite shit meant to make him feel better and even he isn’t so cruel as to make fun of a man’s dead child. Despite the fact Pope is an inveterate liar in many regards, when it comes down to the core of things he’s actually the most honest person Tom knows.

Pope passes the bottle back to him and Tom takes it and drinks before getting up to sit in the rocking chair again.

“Did you know this place was here?” Tom waves his hand out at the garden.

“Yeah,” Pope says. “I found it ages ago. Sometimes I come here to sit and have a drink in peace. Now you’ve gone and fucked that up.”

Tom considers that for a moment, dissects Pope’s tone of voice and determines he’s kidding.

“Sorry about that,” Tom says.

“Meh,” Pope says as he reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a hand-rolled cigarette. “You want one?”

“I don’t smoke,” Tom says.

“Most people don’t anymore, but I still like it even if the tobacco is stale now,” Pope says. He holds his hand out for the bottle and Tom passes it back to him.

“Smoking will kill you,” Tom says.

“There are lots of things will kill you,” Pope says. “Cigarettes are about the least of my damn worries these days.”

Tom doesn’t say anything to that; it’s true and giving someone crap about smoking a cigarette in this new dark age is dumb as hell. So is letting the fact that other illnesses still exist slip your mind so that when your kid starts coughing, you don’t really think that much about it. Then you wake up, more awake and aware than you’ve ever been in your whole pitiful excuse for a life, just in time to hear _his_ life end. After that there are yellow flowers and wooden crosses that won’t last and cold dirt and busy insects. Inside you are a collapsing star because you’ve lost so much already and fate keeps snatching things you love away even though the world is ending in a slow, painful dissolution of _everything_. Your heart is breaking, your mind is melting and _it will never end_. You are having a hard time finding the will to keep fighting, but you know you have to because there are two more boys out there that need you, that depend on you.

“Ah, damnit, Mason,” Pope says.

It’s only then that Tom realizes he’s crying again. He shakes his head, tries to suck it up and he can’t, God help him, he _can’t_. That frustrates him, it embarrasses him to be doing this in front of someone else, but honest-to-everything, he’s still glad it’s Pope. No one else would let him go like this, no one else would let the raw wound of his grief suck and bubble in the night air because people have such a strange desire to cover up the ugliness, the reflections and reminders that all say, _this could be you one day_.

“Hey, man, hey,” Pope says. “Shit.”

Pope gets up and stands beside Tom, touches his shoulder and Tom leans into him without thinking about it. He wants comfort, even Pope’s comfort, just not platitudes and hand-holding bullshit. Tom only wants someone to let him lean on _them_ for a moment instead of it being the other way around. Pope tenses at the touch, at Tom’s trembling weight digging into his side and along his hip and Tom thinks: _Now—now he will push me away and say something awful._

But Pope doesn’t. Instead, he relaxes and loops an arm around across the backs of Tom’s shoulders while he bawls, grief chewing him up and spitting him out only to shovel the mess back into its mouth and start over.

When he is finally done, Pope’s leather jacket is soft and damp from his tears and Tom’s head feels like it’s full of floating rocks—heavy and light at the same time. His eyes are a bloodshot, swollen mess and he’s got more snot on his face, snot which has also undoubtedly transferred to Pope’s jacket as well. He leans into Pope awhile longer, mind drifting with no thoughts to clutter it up. When he snaps out of it, he pulls away from Pope with a muttering sound like a man waking from a strange, unpleasant dream.

“I’m sorry.” Tom’s voice is a croak when he manages to speak again. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Pope says. “You done though?”

Tom thinks about it and nods after a minute. “I think so.”

“Are you _sure_?” Pope asks.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Tom says, half-pleading in a quiet way. “Not right now, Pope, please.”

“I’m not being an asshole, I’m just wondering if I can sit down or not,” he says.

Tom almost smiles, but wipes his face instead. “You can sit. I promise not to start blubbering again.”

“All right then,” Pope says. “Good to know.”

“You mind sharing more of that whiskey?” Tom asks.

“Not at all.” Pope passes him the bottle.

Tom drinks until he has to stop to catch his breath. The booze is a different cloudiness inside his head, it pushes away the stuffiness left over from the crying and fills up the spaces with a gentle cushion that is soothing. Tom’s aware of all the dangers inherent in this, aware that alcoholism really does run in families, but he’s not worried about it. Pulling one good drunk does not mean the rest of his days will be spent in pursuit of _more_ booze.

He doesn’t pass the bottle back to Pope until there’s only an inch or two remaining. Pope holds the bottle up to the light and snorts out a laugh.

“You all right now?” he asks.

“Not really, but I don’t care right now either,” Tom says with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Close enough,” Pope says. “Told ya booze makes everything better.”

“That’s because you’re a drunk,” Tom says.

“So?” Pope asks.

Tom has no reply; only thinks, _So, indeed._

Pope standing up rouses him from his pleasantly numb haze and he looks up at him. Pope has his rabbits again, dead bodies dangling from the string like a morbid mobile as they twist slowly to the left then back to the right and over again.

“Good luck with your hangover tomorrow,” Pope says as he starts to walk away, stepping backwards to look at Tom slumped in the rocking chair.

“I will persevere,” Tom says.

He gives Pope a thumbs-up that makes him smirk before he nods then turns away, walking towards the hole in the garden wall. Tom watches him go and sucks at the back of his teeth.

“I really am sorry about that earlier,” he calls after Pope. “I shouldn’t have done that; it was a stupid thing to do and you shouldn’t have had to deal with it.” It feels like the right thing to say after smearing his sadness and snot all over Pope’s jacket. 

Pope freezes a foot from the hole in the wall then turns and strides back down the path towards Tom. When he draws near again, Tom is surprised to find him scowling as he leans forward and pokes Tom in the chest hard enough to make him grunt.

“It’s like this, Mason,” Pope says as he takes his hand away before Tom can swat at him. “You don’t have to be sorry for feeling like shit because your kid is dead. You don’t have to be _sorry_ you’re not holding it together the way everyone, including you, seems to think you should.” He tips his head back and stares up at the sky, letting out a long, hard breath; a breath that sounds almost painful in its own right. When he looks back at Tom, he pokes his chest again, lighter now, more of a tap. “You are allowed to grieve.”

He turns and walks away again without giving Tom a chance to respond. He watches Pope go in stunned silence, mouth working as he tries to find the words. All he can come up with is _thank you_ and what a bizarre thing that is. Even though Pope is long gone by now, Tom says it out loud anyway and decides that will have to do.

After another couple of minutes, Tom leaves the garden and makes his careful, slightly weaving way back to his quarters with the sound of his sorrow sloshing around inside his head beneath the calming blanket of liquor he’s laid over it.

That night, there is no fitful doze or uneasy hypnagogic state trying to pass itself off as rest. For the first time since losing Matt, Tom honestly _sleeps_. Yellow flowers grow across the roadways of his dreams, making him groan and whimper.


	2. A Chapel of Dark Vines

_A giant claw ate at my stomach_   
_while the inside of my head felt_   
_airy as if I was about to go_   
_mad._

— Charles Bukowski   
“Fingernails; Nostrils; Shoelaces”

It’s a week before Tom sees Pope in more than an official capacity; he’s there when they go over battle plans and watch schedules, but he and Tom don’t speak anymore than that. When he doesn’t have to be social, Tom isn’t; he withdraws to his quarters or wanders around the settlement, trying to blend in—trying to disappear. People are still asking him how he’s doing, Weaver slaps him on the back and squeezes his shoulder, asks how Tom is _holding up_. It’s like he expects Tom to wither to a husk then blow away. What he doesn’t tell Weaver is that’s exactly how he feels some days.

After an uncomfortable night-watch shift with Tector who kept staring at him, eyes big and mouth half-open like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure _what_ , Tom can’t face going back underground. He lets his feet lead him where they want and is unsurprised when he comes to the hole in the garden wall. He walks through and into the sweet smelling pocket of _quiet_.

“Fancy seeing you here again.”

The voice draws Tom up short and he’s already reaching for his weapon when it registers.

“Pope.”

“You got it in one. I always knew you were a genius.” Pope is in the rocking chair tonight, Tom can hear the runners on it creaking against the porch as he draws closer.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”

“Too bad for you then,” Pope says.

“Remind me to complain about it later,” Tom says.

“Sure,” Pope says.

Tom looks down and pauses when he sees the cheerful yellow flowers peering back at him—yes, _peering_. They show even in the starlight or maybe it’s because he knows where to look. He lays his rifle aside and stoops down, wraps his fingers around the stalks and tugs. It takes more effort than he thought it would, but after a couple of yanks the plants come up trailing roots and clods of dirt. Tom lets them fly away into the darkness, listens to the thump of the cluster of plants as they land far out of his sight.

Something relaxes inside of him the barest fraction and he picks his rifle up again then proceeds to the porch and sits on the edge. Pope’s hand appears out of the swathe of shadows he’s draped in and he offers Tom a bottle.

Tom takes it and drinks.

“How was watch?”

“Awkward,” Tom answers. “Was on with Tector.”

“What’d he do?” Pope asks.

“Stared a lot and didn’t know what to say,” Tom says. “Pretty much the same as everyone else with the disadvantage of being stuck with me lately.”

Pope snorts. “If he does it again, tell him to fuck off.”

“He doesn’t mean anything by it.” While he stared, he didn’t look at Tom like he thought he was a psychopath for not being utterly destroyed by the recent death toll in his personal life.

“Still doesn’t mean he should do it,” Pope says. “There’s nothing worse than fucking _pity_.”

“How do you know it was pity?”

“Isn’t that how everyone looks at you?”

“No,” Tom says. “Not even close. There’s pity and concern and the other usual suspects, but there’s also… I’m not sure what to call it… this _something_ … Crap. It’s like they don’t think I’m dealing with it the way I should be.”

“How should you be dealing with it then?”

“Beating my breast, tearing at my clothes, clawing my own skin off… but not _too_ much, that’d be melodramatic or… Hell, I don’t know,” Tom says. He takes a swig from the bottle and passes it back to Pope. “Look—what are you doing?”

“Having a drink, talking to you, sitting in a rocking chair,” Pope says. “I thought all that was obvious.”

“No, I mean, _what are you doing_?” Tom says. “You’re talking to me like… like you _want_ me to talk about this.”

Pope shakes his head and sighs like Tom is the dumbest waste of skin he’s ever seen.

“I’m only making conversation, Professor,” Pope says. “If you don’t want to talk then I don’t give a flying fuck.”

Tom starts to tell him no, he does not want to talk about his mental wellbeing. Except he kind of does, just not with most people and he wouldn’t even with Pope, except Pope is the one who found him, he’s the one who let Tom cry all over him and get snot on his jacket. _Pope_ is the only one who even has an inkling of what Tom really feels these days. That may have happened in a coincidental way, circumstances leading them into each others orbits, but it did happen. As it stands, there is no one else to talk to about this and Pope has proven that he’s not going to go blab or do something shitty like try to throw it back in Tom’s face.

“Do you want the truth?” Tom asks.

“Only if you want to tell it,” Pope says as he hands the bottle back.

Tom takes it and laughs when he thinks of it as a spirit stick.

“I’m _pissed off_ ,” Tom says. He spits the words out; they’re bitter and sour on his tongue, but God it feels good to say them. “I’m so frick—no, I’m so _fucking angry_ that I could scream sometimes. I want to just… hit something, kick it until it stops moving and none of that will fix _anything_ , but sometimes I think if I did then I might feel a little bit better. Just a little bit.”

“So, hit something then,” Pope says. “I don’t see the harm in that. There’s lots of shit around here to hit. A few dents might even be an improvement to some of this junk.”

“I want it to feel it,” Tom snarls. “I want something to _hurt_.”

Pope is quite for fifteen minutes or so and then he sighs and leans over, takes the bottle from Tom while he’s drinking from it. He ignores Tom’s indignant spluttering and puts the booze aside.

“Then hit me,” Pope says.

“What? No,” Tom says. “You’re out of your mind.”

He can hear the smirk in Pope’s voice when he says, “Be that as it may, I can take it and there’s no one else, is there? I’m doing you a favor here, Mason, so be a good boy and accept it.” He pauses. “And if you ever tell anyone about this then I really will kick your ass.”

“I’m not going to hit you,” Tom says.

“All right then,” Pope says.

The next thing Tom knows, his head is snapping to the side and pain is exploding like fireworks along his jaw. He can taste blood in the back of his throat and swallows automatically.

“You son of a bitch!” Tom snarls.

Pope calmly punches him again, this time on his shoulder so hard his fingers tingle a bit with the aftershock.

That does it; Tom surges to his feet and turns on Pope who is already standing.

“Give me your best shot, Mason,” Pope says. “Let’s see—”

His voice cuts off in a grunt when Tom socks him one and then he rushes Pope. They hit the bricks, jarring their very bones and go rolling off the porch to the soft grass then through a patch of mint, the smell of which clouds around them. Then Tom’s nose is bleeding and he’s panting through his mouth as they struggle along the ground. He pins Pope at one point and he head-butts him, making Tom see stars as more blood gushes from his nose and he takes a blind swing, catches Pope on the side of the neck as he rolls away.

They make it back to their feet and circle one another, breathing heavy and knuckles oozing blood. Tom feints to the left, but Pope follows and they lay into each other again. Tom’s ribs are on fire, his stomach is aching and his face is one solid _throb_ , but he does feel better. Even with his breath a harsh rasp in his throat, he feels like he can _breathe_ for the first time since Matt got sick. He’d been gasping even then, still reeling over Anne and Lexi dying, but when Matt went away, the air seemed to stop reaching his lungs altogether.

Now his mind is a red fog and Pope is slamming him into the wall of the house. He can feel it in his spine, the corner where two walls meet neatly dividing him and he surges against Pope. He can see the moisture glistening in Pope’s eyes; smell his odor like basil and rosemary from the pots of herbs he keeps, the patch of mint they tumbled through and the bourbon he drinks. Pope’s face is spackled with patches of shining black—blood in starlight. Tom is vaguely aware of making a guttural, feral sound that tears at his throat as he claws at Pope’s shoulders and shoves against him.

Pope’s grip is too hard, but Tom thrashes against it anyway. He’s tired and weak lately from not eating right though and he’s getting nowhere. All he can manage is to push into Pope’s space because he can’t twist away from him. Pope’s right there, close enough Tom can feel his breath on his face. Tom thinks to bite him right on the end of his bleeding nose, just nip the tip of it off and spit it aside. He thinks about doing the same to his cheek or maybe his eyebrow. He snaps his teeth just as Pope shoves him to the side. Tom grabs the shoulder of Pope’s jacket and pulls him back down to the ground with him.

Pope lands on top of him, knocking the wind from them both and Tom struggles.

“Mason, whoa,” Pope says. “That’s enough. _Enough_ , you hear me? You’re gonna hurt your own damn self if you keep up at this rate.”

“Let me _go_!” Tom growls through his teeth.

“Not ‘til you take a fucking breath, man,” Pope says.

“You’re just pissed because you’re losing,” Tom says.

“Yeah, I’m all torn up about it,” Pope says.

The dryness of his voice renews Tom’s anger, makes him think Pope doesn’t think he’s losing at all and he struggles harder as he tries to push himself up. He works one hand free and grabs the side of Pope’s neck, pulls Pope down as he’s leaning up. Tom makes a terrible sound of anger and frustration then crushes his mouth to Pope’s. If he won’t _let_ him up then Tom will _make_ him move; that’s the train of logic he’s riding on. He doesn’t want this fight to be over, not when he was finally starting to feel alive again. Tom kisses Pope and thinks, _Hit me, hit me, hitmehitmehitme_.

Pope stiffens in shock, but instead of hitting Tom, he grabs the sides of his face in his dirty, bloody hands and kisses him back. It’s Tom’s turn to be surprised, a shockwave of it crashing through him as he gasps. Pope’s tongue slides into his mouth and Tom tangles his fingers in the snarls of his hair as he tugs him closer.

Pope’s grip on Tom loosens and he pushes himself up more to deepen the kiss. It’s hard and rough, a clash of tongues and teeth that smears around the blood on their faces. It’d be unhygienic, but Tom knows neither of them are diseased. He may think about it later and be a little appalled that it happened anyway, but right now, he doesn’t care. His rage is melting into desire that is still sparked with anger and Pope’s weight on top of him feels good, it’s warmth against the chilly spring night air.

When Tom at last pulls away because he has to catch his breath, he falls back on the ground and stares up at the sky, blinking stupidly at the twinkle of the north star. Pope is still on top of him, panting softly then he laughs, nudges Tom with his knee.

“Betcha didn’t see that coming,” he says.

Tom snorts and pushes his arm.

“No, I did not,” he says. His voice is dazed, wondering. “I didn’t see _any_ of it coming.”

“Surprise,” Pope says.

He sounds smug and Tom thinks that won’t do, so he grabs the back of his neck and pulls him down for another kiss because now that he knows he can, oh God, he _wants_. He wants something, anything to take away the gnawing ache in his middle that never goes away and always feels cold. He wanted the crush of blood and bone first and now that he’s been allowed to have it, he finds that even more than a fight, he wants to feel _good_. And this feels good.

Tom would be a liar if he said he never thought about this before, but he never thought it would happen either and he pushed it away. Tom’s no stranger to finding other men attractive, that’s not it. He first started noticing that he noticed men as well as women around seventh grade. Tom never acted on it though because he never had a chance. Hell, he never even went on a _date_ with another man because come to find out, Tom’s picky. He looked at other men, but none of them ever really _did it_ for him beyond that; not the way Pope does even when Tom is occupied with wanting to hate him.

His fumbling, shaking hands find their way underneath Pope’s shirt and his skin is hot against Tom’s palms. He touches as much as he can while Pope cradles the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair, nails resting lightly against his scalp. Tom moans before he can help himself and flexes his fingers against Pope’s back, nails resting right along the ravine of his spine.

When they break away from each other, Tom is gasping and so is Pope. He tips his head back to look at the sky and Tom stares as well. The stars don’t seem as beautiful, as distantly comforting as they once did, but Pope’s skin is still warm under Tom’s hand and he can taste smoky bourbon mixed with blood on his tongue. It tells him all he needs to know: he’s alive; they are alive.

“What are we doing?” Tom says.

“Jesus,” Pope mutters. “Don’t do that; don’t go getting all introspective on me.”

“I’m not,” Tom says even as he thinks, _Am I?_ “It’s just… well… you and then…”

“I’m making out with you and it just so happens you have a dick, which is striking you as pretty damn strange,” Pope says. “Is that about it?”

“Something like that,” Tom says.

“I could say the same, you know,” Pope says as he gets off Tom.

“I know,” Tom says as Pope’s warmth is quickly replaced by the night chill.

Tom doesn’t want this to be over, not yet, _no_ and he sits up, meaning to grab at Pope. He’s not going anywhere though, he only sits down next to Tom and looks over at him. And no, Tom cannot believe this is really happening—he’s known he liked men for a huge part of his life, but even still, it’s John Pope and John Pope _doesn’t_ like men. Or at least Tom didn’t think so because the odds of it happening this way are… he’s not sure, but they’re astronomical.

“Since when do _you_ —” Tom starts.

“Since for as long as I can remember,” Pope says.

“Was it prison?” Tom asks.

Pope’s sharp bark of laughter startles him and then Tom laughs, too, softer, a little shamefully.

“You mean did I go gay for the stay and it just _stuck_ even after I was free?” Pope asks. “Don’t be a dumbass, Mason. I’m not _gay_ for one thing; there’s this thing called bisexuality though. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“Yes, but you’re… you’re… _you_ ,” Tom says.

Pope shakes his head. “I’m not even going to pretend I know what that means.”

“You’re an asshole,” Tom says. Pope barks out another laugh and Tom pushes on. “You don’t seem the type to be… _okay_ with this sort of thing.”

“I guess I fooled you then,” Pope says. “Now stop talking before you piss me off.”

Tom opens his mouth to keep talking anyway, but then Pope draws him closer, fingers curving around his shoulder, calluses scraping against his skin. Tom wonders when the hell he ripped his shirt, it was one of his best ones. Then he stops thinking about that because Pope strokes his fingers lightly against that bare patch of skin and it sends a shiver through Tom’s middle. 

Pope pulls at him until Tom is practically in his lap, fingers tangled in Pope’s hair and shivers crawling along his skin. When he palms Tom through his jeans, he groans against Pope’s shoulder and pushes his hips forward. Pope’s chuckle rumbles against Tom’s chest and his teeth worry at Tom’s earlobe.

It’s _insane_ of them to be doing this out in the open—anyone or _anything_ could see them. There’s nothing worse than getting caught with your pants down during an alien attack, but Tom doesn’t care because that’s thinking; it’s the opposite of what he wants to do right now.

Pope nudges the side of his neck with his nose and mouth, nips at Tom’s skin until he lifts his head to look at him with dazed eyes. Pope licks under his chin, touches the tip of his tongue to Tom’s sore and blood-smeared bottom lip and Tom shudders. He closes the gap, kisses Pope again, another harsh tangle of tongues and teeth that Pope pulls back from, gentles, until he’s kissing Tom slowly, thoroughly. Goosebumps are prickling along Tom’s skin and he can feel the muscles in his belly and along his back shivering.

“We should stop,” Tom grits out even as he rocks into Pope’s hand again.

He doesn’t want to stop, God no, but they need to— _have_ to—before this goes too far. It occurs to Tom though that he’s not sure how far _too far_ actually is. He half wants to find out; no, more than half—he wants to know for sure. But damnit, they _can’t_ , not right now. Then Tom thinks: _Maybe later though…_ and he shouldn’t entertain the idea of there even being a _later_ , but he can’t help himself.

“You have got to be the biggest goddamned buzzkill I have ever met in my fucking _life_ ,” Pope says.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says. He actually means it, too, because he wants to push this as far as he can, wants to find out where the point is that it cracks and falls apart. He wants to experience something new, wants to _feel_ it all the way down into his bones.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pope says. “Get off me then.”

Tom gets up and holds a hand down to Pope. He takes it and lets Tom help him to his feet.

“Guess it’s back to drinking,” Pope says. “You staying or going?”

“Staying,” Tom says. “If that’s all right with you.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if it was a problem,” Pope says. “I still got dibs on the rocker though.”

“Of course,” Tom says with a faint smile.

They pass the bottle back and forth, the two of them getting pleasantly buzzed-bordering-on-drunk. Pope lights a cigarette and when he runs his hand over the back of Tom’s hair, the gesture absent and a little clumsy thanks to the whiskey, Tom leans into the touch. This is a pocket, a slice of privacy and calm that has become so rare. Tom takes it all with greedy fingers and stuffs it in a vault inside his mind, locking it up in the safe place he keeps all of his good memories.

Pope finally gets up to leave and Tom rises as well; they’ve been gone for awhile now. No one is likely to go looking for Pope, but eventually someone _will_ come looking for Tom. As it stands, he’s definitely going to have people asking where he’s been if anyone was awake to notice his absence. It was late when he got off watch though and he thinks maybe that’ll work in his favor here.

“You feel any better?” Pope asks.

“You know what? I actually do,” Tom says.

Pope snorts then laughs softly; the sound a gravelly rumble in his throat.

“I’ll catch you on the flipside, Professor,” Pope says. “Nighty night for now.”

“Yeah,” Tom says and wonders if heard the implication correctly—maybe they’ll do this again sometime—or if he’s only hearing what he wants to hear. “Goodnight, Pope.”

Pope walks away and Tom waits a few minutes then follows, stepping through the hole in the wall and back into real life where danger is the order of every single day and death could be waiting around the next bend. He finds he wants to go back, turn around and slink inside the old crumbling mansion and hide there. For one second, he almost convinces himself that nothing bad could ever find him beyond that garden wall.


	3. Common Nocturne

_Sometimes, I know, the almost-holy_   
_whiteness rooted in our skulls spreads out_   
_like thistles in a vacant lot, a hot powdery_   
_flare-up, which is not a halo_   
_and will return at intervals_   
_if we’re grateful or else lucky, and_   
_will end by fusing our neurons._

— Margaret Atwood   
“Owl and Pussycat Some Years Later”

Kissing Pope is habit-forming; Tom learns that subtly—and not so subtly: feel of hands, touch of tongue, gentle scrape of teeth against sweaty skin, taste of bourbon and herbs. Time and time again he finds himself stepping through the hole in the garden wall and walking the overgrown flagstone path, hoping in his secret self that Pope will show. Often Pope is already there and that is better; it means Tom doesn’t have to wait, doesn’t have to _wonder_.

He knows that people have started to suspect _something_ (but not that, their minds don’t bend in that direction) because Tom comes in smelling of whiskey more nights than not. He keeps telling himself that alcoholism runs in families—a well-worn admonishment—but he always has a drink anyway. It helps batten the hatches against the storm that wants to rage inside of him. Between Pope and the soothing burn of alcohol, Tom has found some shelter from the maelstrom.

Tonight he is freshly washed and bandaged from a battle that tipped in their favor. All of the noise and smoke and blood and screams spell V-I-C-T-O-R-Y for humanity. His clothes are almost clean, his hair is washed and his mouth tastes like orange mint toothpaste. Tom is on his way out, wending his way through the happily thronging groups of people, pushing himself _away_ from the pleased chatter. Outside of this place there is a garden and conversation and the feel of strong hands smoothing the knots from his tired muscles.

He’s almost there, he can almost feel the fresh, cool air of the night on his face when a hand on his arm draws him up short. Tom goes still and thinks, _This is Weaver, he’s going to mention me leaving at night. He’s going to try and_ talk _to me about where he_ thinks _I go and what he_ thinks _I do._

Then he hears, “Hey, Dad.”

The tension inching up his spine eases the barest fraction and he turns to look into Hal’s dark eyes. He’s smiling, dirty and pleased; older than he has any right to be. Looking at him, Tom thinks that he’s started to become one of _those_ parents; the kind that loses one child and starts pushing their living children away. He keeps an eye on Hal and Ben, but he’s no moron, he knows he doesn’t spend nearly as much time with them as he used to. If anyone had ever posed such a morbid hypothetical to him, Tom would have said if he ever (God forbid) lost one child then he’d hold the others even closer. Instead, he has drifted farther and farther away from them in the weeks since Matt passed. 

“What’s up, Hal?” Tom asks when he realizes the silence has gone on too long; Hal is becoming uncomfortable and uncharacteristically nervous. Another twist of guilt lances through Tom and he tries on a smile that he knows looks real because he’s gotten good at faking it.

Hal grins then and waves at someone out of Tom’s line of sight. Ben appears a moment later grinning, too.

“Look what Ben found,” Hal says.

“What is it?” Tom asks, curiosity piqued now.

Ben reaches into his coat and pulls out an unopened deck of Bicycle playing cards.

“We thought you might want to play crazy eights with us,” Ben says. “You remember how, don’t you?”

“Of course I remember,” Tom says. “I’ve got a table in my quarters, we can set up there.”

He doesn’t really want to play, but there’s no way he can look at his sons and tell them that. Their hope and worry are evident on their faces, worn like battle scars of a different kind. Tom steps forward and puts his arms over their shoulders, hugs them close and resists the urge to kiss the tops of their heads. Tom thinks it’ll be fun if he lets himself relax, lets himself fold back into the family he’s slowly abandoning because on some pain-filled level he thinks that if he withdraws from them it won’t hurt as badly if he loses them.

He blinks, squeezing his eyes closed hard at the thought. When he opens his eyes, the world is glaringly bright, but he ignores it; gives Hal and Ben another squeeze. He thinks, _I love you two so much._

He glances over at Hal. “Is Miss. Maggie joining us?”

Hal grins and says, “She’s in our room, but if you don’t mind…”

Tom snorts and ruffles his hair. “Of course I don’t mind,” he says. “She’s family.”

Hal practically _beams_ at that as he ducks away from Tom to go get Maggie.

They gather around the table, sitting on mismatched chairs and shuffling cards. After the first hand is dealt, Maggie excuses herself with a sly smile. When she returns, her coat is bundled in her arms and she’s cradling it like it’s fragile. What she reveals when she’s sat back down is a bag of ranch Doritos and a twenty ounce Code Red Mountain Dew.

“I found them in the mess that used to be a convenience store stockroom,” she explains. “I’ve been hoarding them for a week now; figured it was time to share.”

“Contraband!” Ben crows with delight.

Hal laughs and Maggie passes Ben the chips, lets him have first dibs as she cracks open the Mountain Dew and takes a swallow before passing it to Hal. Tom watches them enjoying their snacks and tilts his head a bit. It’s sad that they’ve taken to referring to once-common things a _contraband_. They talk like prisoners and Tom’s certain they don’t realize it. He starts to point it out, starts to tell them to stop because it isn’t true; they’re free and they’re alive.

Then he _really_ thinks about how they live, how every single day is a fight for survival and more are lost than are saved. Tom thinks about how they yearn for the safety of houses and fences and televisions. He says nothing then and instead wonders: _When will a stabbing become a shanking?_ It sounds comically philosophical inside his head.

When the bag of Doritos circulates over to him, Tom takes a handful and crunches away. The seal held, the bag wasn’t busted—the chips are still fresh and the junk food tastes like a little bit of Heaven on his tongue. The warm soda is much the same; sweet with a faint taste of cherries as it fizzes against his back teeth.

They play cards and keep the conversation light, laughter filling the room as crazy eights melts into slap jack. The mole is mentioned, but then the topic is discarded for the time being. Tom releases the hold he has on his tongue then and tastes a faint wash of blood in his mouth. He came so close to saying, _I don’t care about the damned mole_. That’s a lie though, he does care in a distant and detached way—he wants whoever it is sussed out and dealt with. He does not feel charitable about their punishment either; he thinks the penalty for treason should always be death.

No one mentions Matt, but he is there with them; an uninvited but beloved ghost that eddies around in the air. Ben almost brings him up, he opens his mouth, lips forming the first part of his name: _Ma—_ before he crams a Dorito between his teeth. Tom wonders if they think he doesn’t notice, wonders if they know how thankful he is to them because he’s no more ready to discuss Matt’s death than the deaths of Anne and Lexi. Shamefully, he admits to himself that he may _never_ be ready to discuss losing Matt, but thinks that with time Anne and Lexi will become memories he can touch again without fear of burning his fingers, names he can actually _speak_ without wanting to throw things in a fit of rage.

This has been a good night, but Tom is growing restless when the second hour of their game rolls closer to two and a half hours. Not long after though, the last hand is slapped (Tom’s by Maggie) and goodnights are exchanged. As a parting gift, Maggie reaches back into her coat and pulls out four candy bars that she passes around. Ben drags his Milky Way beneath his nose, sniffing it like a fine cigar and making them laugh. Tom accepts a Snickers then hugs both of his sons at the door before he drags Maggie in for a hug because she looks so lonely standing off to the side.

“It was good seeing you again, Dad,” Ben says as he turns to walk away, candy bar disappearing into the safety of his jeans pocket.

“Yeah, what he said,” Hal says.

Tom knows what they mean: Ben and Hal see him everyday, but they haven’t really talked to him in weeks. He smiles at them and nods, but doesn’t speak; there’s nothing much to really say.

Hal loops his arm around Maggie’s waist and they head in the opposite direction. She glances over her shoulder at Tom and smiles. He nods back, watches her lean into Hal and thinks how Maggie is hell of a woman; sweet and kind, but with a backbone made of steel and a trigger finger that doesn’t hesitate. She’s good for Hal even if she is a so-called “bad girl”—the kind that Tom bets likes vodka shots and heavy metal; kittens and stuffed bears won at carnivals all at the same time.

They turn a corner and Tom shakes his head with a grin as he thinks he might be picky, but he has a type and Hal has inherited that much from him (Karen was no angel even when she was human). It’s just that Tom, come to find out, likes bad _boys_ —the kind who don’t really like kittens and don’t give a flying fuck about stuffed bears won at carnivals. It makes him laugh as he slips back inside his room and gathers up the cards left scattered on the table.

Out there in the dark beyond these concrete walls his secret is waiting for him. Pope is probably impatient and getting aggravated. He may not be there at all when Tom shows up. He’s made up his mind to wait another half hour or so though; long enough to make sure the coast is clear, but it’s hard to do. Tom idly shuffles the cards while he waits and when his watch tells him thirty minutes have dragged by, he gets up to leave then stops. Tom goes back and gets the Snickers bar and puts the cards back in their box then slides both into his coat pockets.

He’s almost to the exit when he hears someone say his name. It’s an unwanted sense of déjà vu and he turns with an irritated frown. It’s Maggie, standing there in her leather jacket with all of her Goldilocks ringlets of blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back.

“Hey,” she says.

“What are you doing up?” Tom asks. “I thought you two were going to bed.”

“Hal’s out cold, but I can’t sleep,” Maggie says. “The Mountain Dew left me wired for sound.”

“Uh-huh,” Tom says. “A few laps around this place should wear you out enough to rest.”

Maggie nods. “That’s the plan.” She tilts her head and moves closer to Tom. “Mr. Mason… Tom… Where are you going? I mean… Where _do_ you go?”

While Tom gives her points for actually having the nerve to _ask_ instead of standing around and speculating, he’s still not going to tell her. So, he takes her arms as gently as he can and dips his head to meet her eyes.

“That’s none of your business, Maggie,” he says.

Her eyes go wide and she starts to speak, but he’s already turning away from her because whether she knows it or not, the conversation is over. However…

“And don’t follow me,” he says. He glances over his shoulder and catches her in mid-step. He knows these people so well and they don’t know him at all, not really. He is _almost_ ashamed of that fact. “Maggie, please, just go take your walk and let me take mine.”

She hesitates for another second, but then she nods. “But look—are you okay? Really okay?” she asks.

“I’m getting better,” Tom tells her. It is and is not a lie, but it’s good enough— _close enough_ —to honest that he can accept it.

“All right,” Maggie says. “Goodnight… again.”

“Same to you,” Tom says.

Then he walks as fast as he can and in another minute he is outside and the stars are glaring coldly down on their scorched Earth. He takes a deep breath of the night air as he hunches his shoulders against a chilly wind moaning across the street and takes off at a brisk pace. He’s anxious and ready to be where he should have been hours ago, his heart is already beating slower and faster at the same time, his hands stuffed in his pockets clenching the candy and the cards—little gifts, small apologies. One could dare call them _tokens_ if they were so inclined. But what they really are is things that Tom wants to _share_ with Pope.

Tom is getting attached to Pope despite himself. He has always liked him, he even thought less than pure thoughts about Pope once or twice. This is different though; this _something_ that drags him through the wreckage of Charleston to the ruins of a stately home and the man waiting in the rocking chair on its back porch. It is the curse of human entanglement, the way feelings grow and emotions swell. Tom won’t call it love because it isn’t, but the truly terrifying part of it is that it _could_ be.

He’s already invested enough in this thing of theirs that lately he’s been pondering a dangerous thought: Does Pope feel the same way? Tom’s not so stupid as to ask because he wouldn’t get a straight answer. At best, he’d get a line of shit meant to distract him and deflect the question. At worst, he’d get told to fuck off and keep his feelings to himself.

During the firefight earlier today though, Tom thinks he got his answer anyway. Pope took cover beside Tom, sweating and cursing and loving every minute of it. He’d grinned at Tom, fierce and damn near _feral_. Something warm had melted through Tom at the sight of it—a tingle, a shiver, a sudden flood of saliva in his mouth that demanded he _taste_ the bead of sweat trickling down Pope’s throat. There was blood in Tom’s right eye though; a piece of wood shrapnel blown back from a splintering tree trunk had caught him right over his eyebrow and he’d ducked his head to wipe at it.

Neither of them spoke—the middle of a warzone is no place to have a conversation—but when Pope broke for a new line of cover closer to the front, he paused long enough to wipe a fresh streamer of blood from Tom’s forehead. In that split second, Tom _knew_ without a doubt that Pope isn’t in it just to swap spit. They will probably never talk about it and that’s fine with Tom; they don’t _need_ to talk about it.

Tom steps through the hole in the wall and moves down the flagstone path, breathing in the heady scent of the flowers. He’s halfway there when he hears the familiar creak of the rocker’s runners against the brick porch.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d show,” Pope says.

Tom bites back a grin at the sound of his voice. “I got held up; the kids wanted to talk to me.”

“Ah,” Pope says. “You didn’t bail on them did you?”

“Of course not,” Tom says.

“Good,” Pope says.

Tom reaches him and bends down to cup the back of Pope’s neck and press his lips to his in greeting. Pope’s laugh is a murmur against Tom’s lips and he smiles into the kiss.

When they pull apart, Tom says, “I’ve got a deck of cards if you’ve got a light.”

“Oh, I’ve got a light,” Pope says. “Come with me.”

He gets up and motions Tom to follow him inside the mansion. Pope uses a Zippo to light their way and Tom looks around the best he can in the flickering glow. What he notices first is how _clean_ it is inside the house. There are pictures hanging on the walls—pictures that aren’t crooked or in broken frames; the floor is clear of debris. The air smells of damp, humid southern air, but not like mildew or mold.

“You don’t just come here _sometimes_ , do you?”

“No,” Pope says. “I did at first; I didn’t even come inside, didn’t think about it really. Then I did and the house isn’t that wrecked and it’s…” He shrugs. “Hell, I like the damn thing.”

“It’s a nice house,” Tom says. “Old, too, which means it has good bones. Probably why it’s not a pile of toothpicks.”

“That’s what I figured,” Pope says. “I think I can fix the roof, too, assuming I can get my hands on the supplies to do it with.”

“So… What… You’re claiming this place?” Tom asks.

“That a problem?” Pope asks.

Tom thinks about it and then shakes his head. “No, it really isn’t. People should live in houses.”

“I agree,” Pope says. He steps across a threshold and holds his lighter up to spread the circle of its glow. “And here we are.”

He snaps the lighter closed and mutters a curse when the lid heats up and burns his fingers before he can put it down. He fumbles in the dark for a second and then the light of a battery operated LED lantern spills into the room.

A glance around shows Tom a kitchen, a modern one that still fights to keep with the old-time charm of the house itself. The island counter is dark granite and the refrigerator—

Wait.

“Is the refrigerator _on_?” Tom asks. The sound he once knew so well he didn’t even notice it is strange to him now. Yet, it’s as a familiar as a lullaby; the sound comforting despite the sharp pang of homesickness for what once was that it brings.

“Yep,” Pope says. “Thing runs like a top. I’ve got a little generator I use to keep it going. I keep my food and beer in there. I may’ve drank it, but hot beer is not my favorite.”

“Food,” Tom says dumbly.

“I hunt,” Pope says. “I know you’ve noticed.”

“Oh,” Tom says. “You keep the meat then.”

“What else am I gonna do with it?” Pope asks.

“Share,” Tom says.

“I share it with a few people, but there’s not enough for everybody and it would be _more_ of a dick move to wave it around in front of the starving masses instead of keeping it for myself to hand out to certain people on the sly. Besides, if people want meat then they can go hunt for it themselves; the woods are full of deer.” He stops and looks at Tom, face thrown into ghostly relief by the lantern light. “I’m gonna have to cook for you one day. The cooking range runs on gas and the tank is full and undamaged.”

“Why do you need to cook for me?” Tom asks. He doesn’t try to argue with Pope about the meat thing because honestly, Pope is _right_ about it. “Not that I’m complaining, but…”

“Because you need to eat more,” Pope says. 

Tom knows he still isn’t eating right, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out the cards.

“How about we play some cards?” Tom asks.

Pope smiles and shakes his head, aware of what Tom’s doing, but the lure of a card game is too much to refuse, Tom figures.

“Then shuffle the cards while I grab us a beer,” Pope says.

“I can do that,” Tom says as he goes to the island counter.

Once they’re both seated at the counter, the taste of blissfully cool beer in Tom’s mouth, Pope leans closer to him, a little smile pulling at his lips. Tom raises an eyebrow in question.

“What do you say we make this game more interesting?” Pope asks.

“I don’t have anything to bet with,” Tom says.

“Yeah, you do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Your clothes.”

Tom coughs out an incredulous laugh. “You’re seriously suggesting we play strip poker?”

“Why not?” Pope says. “I gotta get you naked some way.”

“Classy, Pope,” Tom says as laughs. “But all right. Fine. I’ll play your way.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Pope says. His smile grows bigger, showing his teeth a little bit now and making him look feral all over again.

Then he picks up the cards and begins to shuffle them again. As Tom watches the skill with which Pope shuffles, he almost reconsiders because he has a feeling he may have walked into a losing game. But then he thinks of Pope’s smile and the ripple of warmth it sends through him and decides to go with it.

An hour later, Pope lays down a full house. Tom groans as he covers his face.

“Full house beats three of a kind,” Pope says as if Tom didn’t know that. He’s gloating, a little bit and Tom knows that, too. “Lose the pants.”

“Damnit,” Tom says. “This is not fair.”

Pope has only lost his coat, over shirt, boots and belt by this point. He props his chin in his hand and shrugs one shoulder before he picks up his fresh beer for a swig.

“We’re not getting any younger here,” Pope says.

“Ass,” Tom says as he gets up so he can remove his jeans.

Pope laughs and starts shuffling again.

Tom ends up with four of a kind a little while later and beats Pope’s pair.

“You let me have that one,” he says.

“You’re down to one sock; I thought I’d throw you a bone,” Pope says with a snicker.

“Pants,” Tom says as he glowers at him.

“Yes, sir,” Pope says as he gets up to do what Tom said.

He’s staring, he knows he is, but he can’t help it. Thus far they have only frustrated one another with fumbles in the dark and handjobs… and one memorably embarrassing instance where Pope made Tom come in his pants. He can still hear the soft sound of Pope’s whisper, the feel of his lips brushing beneath his ear: _Made you come._ Tom had been honor-bound to return the favor. It had been messy and gross and juvenile, but damn if it hadn’t been kind of fun, too.

Tom looks around the kitchen and then back at Pope who’s watching him. Tom finishes his beer then leans forward, granite cool against his fever-warm skin.

“Do you have a bedroom cleaned out in this place, too?” Tom asks.

Pope’s smile is wicked as he reaches to pick up the lantern.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says.

Tom follows him after tugging on his jeans, but not bothering to zip or button them. The rest of his clothes he gathers up and holds to his chest; leaving them behind feels careless, although that’s exactly what Pope has done.

Tom watches their shadows leaping along the walls as they go up a long, curving staircase. Strips of wallpaper hang down like the skin of some strange snake and make rustling, whispering sounds as they stir in the slight breeze created by their passing. Tom realizes he’s still only wearing one sock and stops long enough to take it off and add it to the bundle in his arms. Pope’s laugh is soft, but it echoes anyway thanks to the high ceilings. Tom is warm from the beer and half-hard, obviously aroused should Pope decide to look. Tom is well aware that he’s half-naked and unafraid as he follows John Pope into the bowels of some house he’s never been in. It is then that Tom knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he trusts Pope.

“I’ve been wondering something,” Tom says as they start down a hall that seems a mile and a half long.

“What’s that?” Pope asks.

“Should I call you John?” He feels silly asking, but he _has_ been thinking about it, wondering if that’s what he ought to do. Although Pope doesn’t seem to like his first name much—it’s hard to miss the way he grimaces when someone calls him by it.

“No, you should not,” Pope says. “I hate that name. _John_ is a name for missing children and dead people… and a headless saint. I’m not any of those things.”

“No, you’re not,” Tom says.

“You want me to call you Tom?” Pope says.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Tom says. “You call me everything else.”

“Not everything,” Pope says. He pauses outside the door at the end of the hallway and turns to look at Tom. “I have never, not once, called you ‘fuck face’.”

That startles a bark of laughter out of Tom and Pope looks pleased by that as he turns back to the door and opens it.

“Come on in.” This time when he looks at Tom, he unabashedly rakes his eyes over his body.

Tom forces himself not to fidget; instead, he walks by Pope into one hell of a master suite. It’s largely untouched by damage, save a broken window that Pope has covered with boards. The air smells strongly of wisteria and as Pope draws closer with the lantern, Tom sees why—the vines have climbed the wall and slipped through the spaces between the boards. Pale purple clusters of flowers bob in the gentle wind and perfume the air.

He’s still gawping, taking in the paintings hanging on the walls, the huge bed in the center of the room, the glitter of the lantern’s light reflected in the teardrop crystals that hang from the small chandelier over the bed. This isn’t merely a _bedroom_ ; this is opulence, elegance and it’s damn near whole. It’s been so long since Tom’s seen anything close to being in one piece, much less something this lovely, that it takes his breath away.

Then Pope runs his hand up his spine, kisses the back of his shoulder then lightly licks it and Tom sucks in a breath as a shiver runs through him. Pope kisses and licks all the way down Tom’s spine and puts the lantern down before repeating the process in reverse. Pope’s hands go to his hips and slip beneath the gaping waist of his jeans, fingers stroking the curves of Tom’s hip bones. Tom drops his little bundle of clothes then reaches up to hook his thumbs in his belt loops and gives a light tug. His jeans go slithering down his ankles and he pulls away from Pope only long enough to step out of them.

He turns to Pope then and steps into him, runs his hands under the Machine Head t-shirt he’s wearing and feels the ripple of muscle, the coarse, but still oddly soft feel of hair against his palms. He pushes the shirt up until it bunches in Pope’s armpits and he smirks at Tom as he raises his arms and lets him pull it the rest of the way off. His boxers go next and then he crowds against Tom, hands sliding down to cup his ass. Tom gasps and Pope licks inside his mouth then nips his bottom lip, licking over it to soothe the sting.

“Bed,” Pope says.

“Bed,” Tom agrees.

Once he reaches the bed, Tom’s not sure what to do, for one second his mind is nothing but a loop of: _What do I do now? How does this go?_ But then his head clears, he’s thought about doing this with a man before and his mind naturally gravitated in one direction. Maybe it isn’t like that for everyone, Tom has no idea, but it is for him (he’s 99% sure anyway) and he’s fine with it. He scoots back toward the center of the bed and lays down. The mattress is wonderfully soft; it only smells faintly of stale air and the barest whiff of mildew.

He turns his head on the pillow and finds Pope watching him. All Tom can think is that he shouldn’t be standing there, he should be on the bed with him. Without thinking, he holds his hand out to Pope and that’s all it takes. He crawls across the king size bed to Tom’s side and leans down to kiss him. Pope’s hand is warm as it strokes down his belly so lightly it almost tickles. Tom finds himself arching into the touch, mouth falling open in a soft gasp when Pope wraps his fingers loosely around his cock as he breaks the kiss. He ducks his head, licks over one of Tom’s nipples. His mouth is hot and wet and Tom gasps again as he strokes his fingers through Pope’s hair.

Pope begins to stroke Tom lightly, fingers barely a graze against his skin as he licks and sucks at Tom’s nipples until they are puffy and a little sore in a way that Tom finds he likes. It’s a maddening sensation that has Tom close to begging for more and when Pope looks up, a glint in his eyes and a smirk on his face, Tom knows he’s doing it on purpose.

“Bastard,” he pants.

“So I’ve heard,” Pope says before lowering his head again to leave a path of sucking, biting kisses down Tom’s belly.

He smoothes his hands down Tom’s ribs as he goes, fingers tripping over the bones, dipping into the hollow spaces between each one. It’s the first time Tom has truly become aware of how much weight he has lost, but he doesn’t care right now. Pope drags his teeth over the jut of Tom’s pelvic bone and he moans softly in the back of his throat as he reaches for Pope’s hands where they’ve settled on his waist. He threads their fingers together and shivers when Pope squeezes, the metal of his rings cooler than his skin.

Tom moans again when Pope gives the head of his cock a slow, lazy lick then moves to rest his chin on Tom’s thigh. Tom lifts his head and finds Pope’s eyes boring into him. His touches are done with casual intent, but his gaze is intense, burning and Tom’s breath catches in his throat.

“Tell me something, Professor,” Pope says. “How far do you want this to go?”

Tom has sometimes thought he should’ve experimented more when he was younger, he always told himself he would, but then he met Rebecca and _everyone_ else ceased to matter to Tom in that regard. There have been times though when Tom has thought he missed out on getting to know an important part of himself. Now he has that opportunity and he’ll be damned if he’s not going to seize it.

There is no hesitation in his reply of, “As far as we can take it.”

Pope doesn’t smirk when he hears Tom’s reply; he smiles, hungry and full of promise as he turns his head and licks Tom’s cock again. He takes him into his mouth slowly, swallowing him down inch by inch until Tom is sweating and shivering again. When Pope begins to move, he jerks his hips and feels Pope’s fingers tighten, easing him back down so he doesn’t push too far into his throat.

Tom rolls his head to the side and moans, fighting to catch his breath as gooseflesh pops out all over his skin. Pope makes an _mhmm_ sound in the back of his throat that makes Tom jerk his hips again.

 _He’s done this before,_ Tom thinks.

With that thought comes a belated revelation: Tom is the virgin here, _he_ is the one with no real idea about how all of this works. Sure, he knows about sex and he had even watched gay porn to satisfy his own curiosity, but like straight porn, found it really wasn’t for him. Still, Tom has never _done_ this before and he finds himself both anxious and excited, which is not too different from the first time he was ever with a girl.

Pope swallows against the head of his cock when it bumps the back of his throat and Tom has to bite his lip to keep from making too much noise. His moan hums through his skin, making it itch and he worries at it with his teeth while telling himself not to come yet.

“Stop. You have to stop or I’m gonna…” Tom breaks off on another moan when Pope’s pleased chuckle hums through his cock. “Oh, Jesus.”

Pope slides his mouth off of him with a lewd, wet pop and says, “Nah, it’s just me.”

Tom laughs breathlessly and reaches for Pope as he slides back up his body. He leans up to kiss Pope, wrapping his arms around him, fingertips pressing into the hard muscle of his back. Tom can taste himself on Pope’s lips and doesn’t mind one bit.

“Hold on,” Pope says, the words a whisper against Tom’s lips. “I’m not gonna fuck you dry.”

Tom groans and manages to suppress the shiver that brings, but he can do nothing about the ball of heat in his lower belly that throbs in time to his heartbeat. Pope moves away to open a nightstand drawer and rummage around. He finds what he’s looking for, closes the drawer then takes his rings off. As he lays them on the nightstand each soft thunk of the heavy metal sends an answering thump through Tom’s body.

When Pope comes back, he has a small bottle of lube in his hand and a pleased expression on his face.

“It’s amazing what you can find looting,” Pope says as he shakes the bottle at Tom.

Tom huffs out a soft laugh and tells himself to relax. He does want this, but he can’t help but be nervous about it. He not only never experimented with other men, he never experimented much with _himself_ either; another thing he now wishes he’d done more of.

The snap of the lid opening seems loud in this huge space and Tom jumps a little. Pope runs his hand down the inside of his left thigh and Tom draws his leg up. Pope’s fingers are a heavy weight against the crease of his leg, but the touch grounds him as he draws slow, deep breaths and waits.

The first cool, slick touch of Pope’s finger against his opening makes Tom jerk. Pope makes a soft shushing sound, soothing him and that surprises Tom, but he’s glad for it. As Pope starts to push his finger inside of him, Tom tells himself not to tense up and almost manages it.

“Relax,” Pope says, keeping his voice soft like Tom’s a horse that might spook. “It’s fine, you’re fine; it’s all fine.”

“It’s just… I’ve never done this,” Tom admits and yes, it is a little embarrassing.

“That’s fine, too,” Pope says. “I’ve gotcha.”

He’s being patient and nice about it and that does make Tom relax. He’s been messing around with Pope for long enough now to know that he wasn’t going to throw him down and have his wicked way with him, but this little bit of extra kindness is appreciated.

“I believe you,” Tom says. He breathes out slowly through his nose, feels his body relaxing even as Pope pushes his finger deeper inside of him and it really is okay.

Pope adds a second finger a few minutes later and kisses the insides of Tom’s thighs when he makes a sound of discomfort. The first finger wasn’t that bad and the second isn’t awful, but he’s tight (the thought would make him blush if he wasn’t otherwise occupied) and unused to this sort of thing. Then Pope crooks his fingers as he pushes them in all the way to the knuckles and Tom arches his back at the jolt of pleasure. He knew about this, but he’s never experienced it firsthand.

“Do it again,” Tom manages to say.

“Happy to oblige,” Pope says. Then he does it and Tom grabs the sheet on either side of his hips.

By the time Pope adds a third finger, Tom is rocking against the gentle thrusts he’s making. Sweat has soaked his hair and he can feel it running down his neck as he rolls into each touch. Pleasure beats under his skin with each indrawn breath and he’s close again.

“Look at you,” Pope whispers. “Damn.”

“Shut up,” Tom says through his gritted teeth.

“You’re hot, Professor,” Pope says. “Very fucking hot.”

“Come. Here,” Tom says and then gasps as Pope crooks his fingers and leaves them there, lightly massaging that spot. Tom is shaking, fingers tightened in the sheets to the point his knuckles are white. “Please,” he manages around an embarrassing whining sound.

Pope doesn’t say anything, but he withdraws his fingers and stops to slick his cock with lube before he eases Tom’s legs up and back. A moment later, he starts to enter him with slow forward rocking motions of his hips. Pope’s cock is bigger than three of his fingers and Tom bites his lip and breathes out harshly through his nose at the burn. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel it all, knowing that the burn will fade. He feels his body relaxing and stretching around Pope, letting him in and that sends a stab of pleasure through Tom.

Pope stills when he is fully inside of Tom, hip bones pressing into his flesh. Every single nerve in Tom’s body starts to tingle as the last of the ache fades away and there is nothing but pressure, fullness and the desire to move, to find the pleasure that he is certain is lurking around the fringes of this.

“You with me?” Pope asks.

“I’m with you,” Tom says.

That’s all he needs to hear to get moving again. He goes slow at first, being careful not to hurt Tom though he knows he’ll be sore later anyway—the good kind of sore. They find a rhythm together and Pope moves faster, Tom rolling his hips to meet him every time he pushes back inside. His stomach muscles and the long muscles of his thighs are trembling. The humid air has left them both slippery with sweat and they slide together in the center of the great big bed.

Tom’s voice cracks on a cry a couple of times, but he knows how to be quiet. His bottom lip is bleeding he’s bitten it so many times and so hard, but he doesn’t care. When Pope leans over him, folding his body down on Tom’s and pressing them close together, Tom presses his face to the crook of his shoulder at the sharp jolt of pleasure the new angle brings. 

When Pope moves back some, he takes Tom’s hips in his hands and Tom pants for breath, hears the sound of Pope’s ragged breathing. He opens his eyes to watch Pope in the pale light from the lantern by the door, sees the shadows and highlights it creates of his arms, his chest, the mask it makes his face. Tom never thought he would find himself arching his back this way, rolling his hips into the grip of strong hands, calloused fingers pressing deeply into his skin with each movement.

He wraps his legs around Pope and pulls at him to urge him back down. Pope palms Tom’s cheek as he kisses him hard and deep, the way he’s fucking him. Tom strains against him, arching beneath the onslaught; his cock trapped between their bodies, the friction almost unbearable when coupled with the pleasure of being fucked. Pope sucks at his sore lip and Tom moans long and low into his mouth as he wraps his arms around him.

Pleasure is a thing with teeth and it’s biting at him, making his stomach muscles tense as he arches even harder against Pope. The smack of their skin slapping together makes him tremble as he turns to bury his face in the side of Pope’s neck. Pope makes a sound of negation in the back of his throat and nips Tom’s lip again then licks. Tom’s voice cracks on a cry and he knows he must be hurting Pope by digging his fingers into his back the way he is. But he can’t force his grip to loosen; it’s like his body won’t listen to him.

“Come on, Professor.” Pope’s voice is a growl against his lips and Tom opens his eyes to find Pope staring right back. “You know you want to,” he says as he leans forward to lick inside Tom’s mouth, a quick smile tugging his lips up into that feral grin of his.

Tom kisses back until he can’t anymore because he can’t catch his breath and he’s starting to shake and he’s mauling Pope’s shoulders he’s pretty sure, but Pope doesn’t seem to mind. The pleasure in his stomach pulses once, twice and then it lets go and he arches his back hard as he comes with a cry he can’t quite swallow all of.

“That’s it,” Pope says as he kisses away Tom’s moans, swallowing them down.

Tom is wrung out and still shivering, but too stubborn to lay back and let it go. He moves with Pope, makes himself hold his gaze and a few minutes later, Pope gasps and begins to tense. His fingers tighten against Tom’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. Tom strokes his back, feels the way the muscles tremble with pleasure and exertion. He’s almost there and Tom nuzzles his throat, licks the sweat from his skin and strokes along Pope’s sides.

Pope presses his forehead to Tom’s shoulder, his breath hot against his already heated skin. Tom keeps stroking his shoulders, over his hair then back down his sides. He tightens his legs around him, drawing him closer, urging him on.

A moment later, Pope goes rigid then stills completely as he groans again. When he comes, Tom is surprised at how _hot_ it is and how strange a sensation it is. It’s not bad, not gross, but it’s definitely something that will take some getting used to.

“That’s it,” he whispers, an echo, as Pope sags against him. Tom smoothes his hair back, runs his hand down the side of his neck.

Pope rouses himself a minute or two later and pulls out of Tom, kissing him when he hisses in a breath. He rolls to the side and lays his hand on Tom’s stomach, fingers idly smearing through the mess there.

“I have water drawn up in the bathroom if you want to wash off,” Pope says, voice a lazy rasp.

“You mean you haven’t figured out how to get the water running yet?” Tom asks. He’s teasing, but he also knows that Pope is damn smart and industrious.

“Working on it,” Pope says as he leans in and mouths the curve of Tom’s shoulder. “For now, I’ve got buckets and towels and a washrag or two.”

He’s very tactile—touching, tasting, licking, biting—and Tom’s not at all surprised by that. Pope seems the kind that likes to lay claim, leave his mark—and the kind that wants to _know_ , to catalogue, all at the same time. What is surprising (in a good way) is that it’s not weird between them. Then again, it shouldn’t be weird, Tom figures; they’ve been at this for awhile now. In the world of _before_ it could even be called “seeing each other”. That… _that_ is the realization that is truly surprising to Tom. He never would’ve thought it would happen. Sure, he could look all he wanted, but for it to end here, with him lying in bed beside this man with sweat that refuses to dry because of the humidity is not something he ever gave much thought to.

Tom turns his head and kisses Pope, slow and gentle, before he gets up and goes to sponge himself off because he is pretty funky right now. He can feel Pope’s eyes on him all the way across the room where he picks the lantern up first before stepping through the doorway to the master bathroom.

When he comes back, he’s cleaner and much cooler than he was before. The water was tepid because of the heat, but cold in comparison to the air. It’s inching into summer here in the South, which comes early and stays a long time. The high ceilings of the house keep it cooler than some places would be though and the bedroom windows are open—it’s not a great move security-wise, but it’s better than suffocating after marinating in your own sweat.

Pope is sitting up in bed, smoking and watching Tom again as he stops to dig through his clothes on the floor and retrieves the Snickers bar to bring back with him. He shows it to Pope and he grins before taking a swig of whiskey from a bottle he must keep by the bed.

“Hold that thought,” he says as he slides off the bed and takes the lantern from Tom. “My turn.”

He disappears into the bathroom and Tom sits on the bed, back propped against the wrought iron headboard that twists and curves into silvery curlicues that come together to give the impression of a bank of clouds. For a few minutes, Tom sits there, naked and comfortably cool, but he keeps glancing at the whiskey. He keeps telling himself, _Leave it alone._ He holds out another minute or two before he picks the bottle up and takes a swallow. He’s coming to greatly appreciate the smoky sweetness of good bourbon.

After Pope’s in bed again, sitting with his shoulder lightly touching Tom’s, the bottle passing between them, he says, “About that candy bar…”

Tom picks the Snickers up and opens it, takes the first bite then passes it to Pope. So begins a new part of the rhythm: passing the candy back and forth between sips of whiskey. When Pope leans in and kisses Tom, the taste of chocolate and caramel in their mouths goes with the taste of bourbon and Tom moans. However, he yawns when they pull away and Pope laughs at him.

“Lightweight,” he says.

“In case you failed to notice, we had a really busy day today,” Tom says.

“I noticed,” Pope says. “I was there.”

Tom can hear the grin in his voice, knows he’s talking more about the sex than the battle. Imagine that—Tom’s found something Pope likes doing more than killing aliens. It pleases him in a funny kind of way.

Tom picks at the label on the bottle and taps his fingers against the neck. He’s fidgeting because he wants to ask something here, but he’s not sure if it’s a good move. In some ways, Pope is still unfamiliar territory and the last thing Tom wants to do is scare him off just when they finally seem to be getting somewhere.

“You can stay if you want to,” Pope says.

Tom jumps.

Pope laughs at him again.

“People don’t fidget that way after sex unless it’s about something like that,” Pope says. “If I wanted you out, I’d have kicked you out right after. We’re good.”

“You’re a real sweet talker, you know that?” Tom says. He’s not bothered though—he likes that Pope is upfront and what’s more is that he _wants_ Tom to stay. He thinks for about the thousandth time that he shouldn’t be getting attached like this, but God help him, he is.

“I’m pretty sappy, yeah,” Pope says.

Tom snorts a laugh at the obvious lie then takes another swig from the bottle.

Pope takes the bottle from him a moment later after Tom yawns again.

“Sleep, Mason,” Pope says. “I’ll keep watch.”

“You don’t have—”

“It’s just a figure of speech,” Pope says. “Crash for a little while. It’ll do you some good.”

Tom nods and slides down in the bed, stretching out on his stomach and getting comfortable. He smiles when Pope’s hand settles on the back of his neck and lightly kneads the muscles there. He’s out not a minute later and then the nightmares come—yellow flowers growing over Matt’s grave as he screams from under the ground that he can’t breathe and _Dad! Daddy! Please help me!_

He jerks awake with a strangled sound caught in his throat and hands digging at the bedclothes (the dirt of Matt’s grave; he has no shovel, but he’ll dig him out anyway).

“Hey, hey, you’re all right.” The sound of Pope’s voice right behind him is a comfort, the feel of his hand stroking down Tom’s back chases away the chills and wipes away the cold sweat streaming over his skin.

“Damn dreams,” Tom says through his teeth when he can speak again. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“It’s no big deal,” Pope says. “I was barely dozing.”

“How long was I out?”

“Dunno, a couple of hours, I guess,” Pope says.

“Shit,” Tom says as he turns on his side.

Pope moves up behind him and loops an arm around his waist. It’s hot as hell, but Tom doesn’t care because it’s like being grounded and it feels safe this way.

“Can you go back to sleep?” Pope asks. “There’s some whiskey left if you think that’ll help.”

“I’m all right,” Tom says. His heart isn’t thundering anymore, the shakes have stopped and his mind is slowly stilling its rapid cycle of _gottogetMattgottogetMatt_.

Pope murmurs something against the nape of his neck and Tom sighs, relaxing into it. He should go back to the underground, people will wonder even more now, they will probably be looking for him come sun-up, but he doesn’t _want_ to go back. Deciding to stay earlier was a product of the whiskey, but that’s the thing about booze: it’s a great truth serum; it makes it difficult to even lie to yourself. Lying there with his sweat at last drying on his skin, he decides that he is going to stay.

He falls asleep again listening to the sound of Pope’s breathing, knowing he’s still awake. Knowing he’s still keeping watch.


	4. Some Bright Morning

_The breaking of so great a thing should make_   
_A greater crack: the round world_   
_Should have shook lions into civil streets,_   
_And citizens to their dens._

— William Shakespeare   
“Antony and Cleopatra”

A month later they mount a huge offensive attack against four Skitter encampments. They’ve been planning this fight for the better part of five months—Matt wasn’t even sick then, though that came not long after. Hal goes with Weaver and Maggie, along with a unit of other fighters; Tom has command of his own. Pope goes off with his crew and a smaller unit of fighters as well. Ben and Deni head out with a group of rebel Skitters and an even smaller handful of fighters. They leave out at dawn and march to the four corners: Hal goes to the west, Pope to the north, Ben to the east and Tom heads further south toward the Georgia border.

That same old sense of trepidation, dread and adrenaline-fueled rage is thudding through Tom, turning his pulse into a snare drum in his temples. Pope glances over his shoulder at him as he guns the engine on his bike and Tom nods: I’ll see you later. He hugs Hal and Maggie, slaps Weaver on the back and waits for Weaver’s call of, “Move out!”

When the call comes they disperse on horseback, on foot, on motorcycles and in trucks and cars. It’s an honest-to-God army, no matter how ragtag it may be and Tom takes it in for a second before turning away and leading his group toward their part of the fight.

It’s a long and bloody battle and it is near sundown of the following day when Tom makes it back with his unit. He suffered no casualties, but he’s got wounded that need to get to the infirmary as soon as possible. They won though and that’s what truly counts when it comes to this war of theirs—each victory is a step closer to banishing the Espheni from their planet. Tom is in high spirits as they head back toward Charleston.

Upon their return, they find the settlement in an uproar and Tom’s skin prickles at the sound of agitated murmuring. His end of the fight may have gone well, but someone else’s didn’t. He nudges his horse into a canter and heads for the main hub of this place.

Tom makes it inside and helps take the wounded to the infirmary even though his mind is starting to race, panic a low rush in his blood now. As he helps the fighter he’s half-carrying, he notices that people are staring at him and his skin prickles again.

He’s only just managed to hand off his human cargo for care when he hears, “Tom, over here!” in Weaver’s familiar bark of a voice.

Tom is aware that someone, somewhere is crying—no, they’re not _crying_ , they’re _wailing_. He looks around for the source of the sound, not wanting to turn to Weaver for some reason. Then Weaver steps right in front of him and Tom has no choice but to look at the man. He’s got a bloody bandage wrapped around his head and his eyes are like tunnels straight to hell. A curtain around a bed parts and there’s the source of the wailing: Maggie fighting against a nurse who’s trying to stitch up a long cut on her face. She’s red with blood though, too much blood for it to all be her own.

“No,” Tom says, shaking his head, muttering under his breath too low for anyone to hear. “No. No. No.”

“No one told me you were back or I would’ve come to you.” Weaver pauses, looks down at his dirty boots then back up again. “Tom, I don’t know how to tell you this.” He pauses again, puts his hand on Tom’s arm.

Tom glances at Weaver like he’s just seeing him there and shakes him off almost absently. Then he looks back at Maggie and shakes his head again. _Why is she crying?_ Oh, he knows, but he doesn’t want to and there’s a peculiar sensation in his head right now. He thinks it might be the feel of his mind starting to splinter.

“Tom, look at me.” Something about Weaver’s tone of voice commands attention and even now, Tom gives it. He looks right into Weaver’s nightmare eyes and _stares_ , pleading with him not to say it.

“Where’s Hal?” Tom asks. His voice seems to belong to someone else, like they’re standing behind him, speaking over his shoulder.

“I so damn sorry, Tom,” Weaver says. His eyes are glistening and Tom doesn’t like that one bit. Maggie screams once, short and shrill and Tom wonders again: _Why is she crying?_ “The vehicle he was in took Mech fire and there was nothing we could do about it. I tried, I swear to you, I tried, but it was so quick and we were too slow and I…”

His voice breaks and Tom keeps right on staring at him, willing the words to reverse back into Weaver’s mouth. If he thinks about it hard enough, he can _see_ it: Weaver taking back this awful thing he’s just said.

“Why is Maggie crying?” Tom asks in his new faraway, over his own shoulder voice.

“Maggie’s torn up about it,” Weaver manages. “She was near the vehicle when it blew, saw the whole thing go down. The initial shockwave threw her out of the way before the gas tank exploded though and—”

Maggie is crying and Maggie has no _business_ crying about this. Tom understands that he has lost another child and how _dare_ she cry about it? She has no right. None at all. She was spared and Hal was not. Hal was not her son. Hal was _his_ son and now he’s lost his oldest boy as well as his youngest _and_ his little girl was fucking _murdered_. There are two wives gone now, too. And _Maggie_ has the gall to cry where he can hear her? In a sudden, irrational wave Tom hates her with the fury of a thousand burning galaxies. He wants to slap her right across her cut cheek and scream at her to _SHUT UP!_ because he can’t stand that noise.

There is another sound as well, a high, whining _hum_ like mechanical mosquitoes buzzing in Tom’s ears, filling up his head.

“Where’s Hal?” Tom asks again. “Where’s my son?”

“Tom… Tom…” Weaver stops and lowers his head with a heavy sigh. “We…”

“I want to see my son, goddamnit!” Tom screams it at him then tries to shove past Weaver. If he won’t tell him where Hal is then Tom will find him.

“Tom, no,” Weaver grabs him and yanks him back. “You don’t need to see what’s— You don’t need that.”

“Did you almost say _what’s left_?” Tom asks in his faraway voice.

“Tom, come on, come sit down,” Weaver says.

“ _Stop saying my name like that_ ,” Tom snarls at him. His head reels and he closes his eyes only to open them to incredible, unbearable brightness and flashing spots like someone has just taken his picture. “I need to find Ben, need to talk to him, need to…”

“Ben’s unit hasn’t made it in yet,” Weaver says. “I’ll send for him the second he shows up, but you need to sit down.”

“No,” Tom says.

Maggie is still sobbing or maybe it’s in his head now. This is another dream—that’s it! He’s having a terrible dream again, that’s all. Tom only needs to wake up and everything will be okay again, just wait and see. 

“You are awake,” Weaver says.

Tom cocks his head and leans closer to Weaver. “Get out of my head,” he says.

“You’re talking out loud,” Weaver says. He sounds calm, but he looks very worried. “Now come sit down before you fall down.”

“Liar,” Tom says. Christ, what is wrong with him? Why does he keep having these horrible dreams? Matt dying of pneumonia, Hal getting blown to smithereens, Anne and Lexi being murdered by Karen. No, no, nuh-uh.

Weaver almost said _what’s left_ , which means they didn’t bring all of Hal back. How could they _do that_ , just leave parts of him on some dirty street somewhere? Tom should go there and pick up the pieces himself. He knows his son’s flesh and he will pick every piece of him up—every shred of skin and splinter of bone; he will patiently sop up the pools of Hal’s blood with anything he can find; a shirt, stuffing from torn cushions, his very own hands. Tom couldn’t save Hal because _he wasn’t there_ , but goddamnit, he can put him back together again, make him _whole_.

Tom’s thoughts spiral out after that, become even more disjointed and disorganized: Yellow flowers. Wooden crosses. Orange-flavored cupcakes. Dogs snapping at shadows. A beetle on a rose. The half-remembered lyrics to “When the Music’s Over” by The Doors.

Tom stumbles back a step and another and another, half thinking he needs to be _somewhere_ , he needs to do _something_. Weaver grabs him, holds him steady as he begins to shake.

He stares at Weaver, almost not recognizing his friend and then he does. It is with a quiet kind of wonder that Tom says, “Hey, Dan, wouldn’t it be weird if tigers had vertical stripes?”

It’s about then that his brain decides it’s best for the both of them if Tom checks out for a little while. He is dimly aware of his eyes rolling back in his head and the bones disappearing in his legs. Then he’s falling and somewhere there is laughter and music and clocks that run backwards.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Tom wakes up in his quarters to the sound of more weeping. He only lays there, letting his mind wander as he tries to put off the inevitable, but it comes with twisted legs and a leper’s face and makes him acknowledge it: Hal. Is. Dead.

He snaps his eyes open and turns his head to find the source of the sobbing, thinking it’s Maggie all over again. The words _shut up and get out_ are sharp and poisonous as a wasp stinger on his tongue. Instead, he finds Ben curled into a tight ball on the bed beside him, shoulders shaking, spikes straining against the dirty fabric of his shirt. He’s caked with red clay and there are bits of grass stuck in his hair; all manner of filth embedded in the soles of his boots.

“Ben,” Tom says.

That’s all it takes, Ben unfolds himself and rolls over into Tom’s arms, sobbing against his chest like he hasn’t since he was a little boy. Tom holds him tightly and ignores the way Ben’s spikes dig painful divots into his skin.

“Shh… shh… shh,” Tom murmurs, at a loss for words, for a magic combination of syllables to make this all better. His mind is a numb and strange corridor right now; the only clear thought he has is: _Take care of Ben._ That’s his _job_ as a parent; to make sure his children are safe and well and to comfort them when they’re sad, to tell them it’s all going to be okay when they’re afraid. Ben needs his father right now, not his father’s rotting pit of grief.

“I can’t… They told me that Hal… Oh, God, Dad,” Ben gets out around shaking bursts of sobbing.

“I know, son, I know.” Tom wonders if his voice sounds as odd to Ben as it does to him; like it’s still not _his_.

Tom lets his brain take over on autopilot, doing his job as a father is priority number one and where he _really_ is, but the rest he lets filter through his brain, too: He needs to find Weaver as soon as he can calm Ben down and make funeral arrangements for Hal. He needs to get his suit cleaned up the best he can. He needs to get Ben into the shower because the child is so filthy he looks more like a swamp monster than a boy.

He kisses Ben’s temple and holds him until he cries himself out, actually falling asleep while his chest still jerks with hiccoughs of sobs. When Tom thinks he can move Ben without disturbing him, he does so and goes to get a washcloth to at least wipe his dirty, tear-streaked face with.

For awhile after that, he sits on the side of the bed, listening to nothing, thinking of nothing, feeling _nothing_. Then he jumps like someone’s hit him with a cattle prod. He doesn’t know if Pope is all right, if his unit made it back safely or if— _No_ , Tom will not think that, will not think that there’s a possibility he’s lost Pope as well. It’s all too much to bear as it is and he can’t take anymore. He _can’t_.

Aware of the world shifting and swaying around him again, Tom gets up and goes to find Weaver. He doesn’t have to look far, he’s sitting in a chair right outside Tom’s door, slumped slightly to one side, but he sits up as soon as Tom steps into the hall.

“Hey, Dan,” Tom says.

“Tom,” Weaver says as he gets to his feet.

He takes Tom’s upper arms in his hands, eyes glassy and breath shaking as he exhales. Tom pats his shoulder, gives it a squeeze and waits for Weaver to get himself together. It’s strange that it feels like Tom is the one giving comfort here, but that’s how it goes, too. He’s learned that lesson the hard way with hands-on experience that he would give up in a heartbeat if given the chance.

“Is there anything I can do? You probably want something to eat. I can send for you some grub, if you want it,” Weaver says. “What about Ben, how is he? Does he need anything?”

_Do you know how to perform the miracle of resurrection, Dan? Because we’d both like it very much if Hal wasn’t dead anymore._

“He’s all cried out for right now,” Tom says then he makes himself nod. “Yeah, some food would be great; Ben’s probably starved. I’m good though, thanks. I need… The funeral, we need to talk…”

“Just say the word,” Weaver says.

“Can we swing day after tomorrow?” Tom asks. Tomorrow is too soon, there’s no time to build a coffin and get everything together the way it should be done. Time is always in short supply nowadays, but another day is okay, Tom thinks. He doesn’t want to do it that soon; doesn’t want to do it _at all_ , but he has to.

“We can do that,” Weaver says.

Tom nods and tries to think of something else to say.

“Thanks for being here, Dan,” Tom says. “It means a lot.”

“Anything for a friend,” Weaver says. He gives Tom’s arms a fierce squeeze, reminding him of a bruise he earned today, but he doesn’t wince.

There’s one more thing to ask and he takes a slow, deep breath before he lets the words out of his mouth.

“Did Pope’s unit make it back okay?” 

“They lost two fighters, but the rest of ‘em are fine; bruises and scrapes, that’s all,” Weaver says.

“No Berserkers lost?”

“Not a one,” Weaver says.

Tom nods and tries not to let his relief show because Weaver wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t freak out about it, Tom doesn’t think; he stood at a commitment ceremony a few months back for a fighter named Carla and her partner Natalie, so that’s not it. No, it’s the _Pope_ part and the plain old slap-in-the-face shock of _Tom Mason likes men, too_. But mostly it’s Pope; Weaver never has been able to stand him and only keeps him around because he’s smart enough to see Pope’s value as a soldier to the cause. And because of Tom’s insistence he be allowed to stick around. He wonders if Dan has ever noticed that; if he has then he keeps it to himself and Dan’s a hard man to read.

“I’m going to go back in now,” Tom says. “You’re welcome to step in, too, if you want.”

“I need to get on finding you some food and making the rest of the arrangements,” Weaver says. “You go on, Tom, be with your boy.”

“My boy,” Tom says, the bitterness of the _singular_ dripping off his tongue because it should be _boys_. It shouldn’t be happening at all. He shakes himself out of it and steps back to the door. “Yeah, yeah; just come on in when you find food.”

Weaver nods and turns away; Tom steps back in his room and goes to get the bottle of Scotch off the dresser. Someone gave it to him and Anne when they made it official and they agreed to save it for their tenth anniversary. Well, that anniversary will never come now and Tom wants a drink. He might be drinking too much (probably is) but right now, in this instant, he would _dare_ anyone to say something to him about it. He has _earned_ this drink and all the ones he knows will follow tonight because he can’t be here, not like this, not so agonizingly _aware_ of having three dead children.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They bury Hal next to Matt two days after his death. Tom stands in his clean suit; it was a surprisingly good fit before—a lucky find—but now it hangs on him. At least it is black though; black is the color for funerals and Tom is old-fashioned in that way. Even his shirt is black.

Ben and Weaver flank him and Maggie stands on Weaver’s other side. She’s staring straight ahead, tears running down her face like they’ll never stop. Maggie tried to speak to Tom on their way to the field to bury Hal, but he dismissed her with a bit more bite to his words than he meant to let out. Tom didn’t miss Ben’s surprised glance or the questions in his eyes, but he ignored them.

He cannot stand the sight of Maggie anymore. It’s not her _fault_ and Tom feels terrible about it, but he can’t stop it being true. He looks at Maggie and thinks, _You survived while my son was blown to pieces._ All she’ll have left of that terrible day is a scar on her cheek that won’t actually detract from her beauty; it will only give it another dimension, make it sharper and more dangerous. When Weaver steps forward to say a few words after Peralta steps away from the head of the grave, Maggie glances his way and Tom clenches his jaw, refuses to look at her. From the corner of his eye he can see her tears as they catch the light and sparkle in the sun like liquid diamonds, blinding him; driving him closer to madness.

After Weaver is finished speaking, he nods his head and says, “Tom.”

Tom steps forward then to speak because he couldn’t do this for Matt, but he won’t let Hal down, too. He’s done enough of letting his children down to last him twenty lifetimes.

“He was my son and I loved him,” Tom says. “I will always love him and I’m sorry… I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye. Sorry it happened at all.” He touches the top of the cross at the head of Hal’s grave—it’s wood, too and that still bothers Tom—and says, “Goodbye, Hal.”

Then he steps away and a young man new to the settlement comes forward to sing “I’ll Fly Away”. He has the low, raspy voice of a blues singer and adds a certain sorrow to the song that Tom thinks is fitting. When the hymn is over, they start filling in Hal’s grave.

Tom was one of the lucky ones, one of the very few who escaped with a minimal loss of loved ones. He lost Rebecca, but he still had his sons; even if Ben wasn’t with them no one knew for sure if he was dead or alive. And he was alive and Tom got him back and even after he was unharnessed, Ben was mostly okay, unlike poor Rick. Yes, Tom Mason was a very lucky man and even luckier still to have the chance at love again with Anne Glass and they had a beautiful, healthy baby girl. He had all the luck in the world—more luck than any one man should have in times like these.

 _This is what I deserve,_ Tom thinks as he watches each shovelful of dirt fall into the hole. Every time he has looked into the eyes of another person who has lost a loved one, their faces shredded by grief then badly stitched back together by the sheer will to survive, he’s felt sympathy and sorrow for what they have lost. But he’s also looked at every one of those people and thought, _Sorry, pal, but better you than me._ So maybe this that has happened to him now is karma, the big universal _FUCK YOU_ that he deserves for thinking his ugly little human thought.

Tom is still lost in thought when Ben touches his arm. “Dad, we’re going.”

He blinks and focuses his vision. Hal’s grave is full now; six feet of heavy dirt between him and another child.

“You go on, Ben,” Tom says. “I’m going to stay a little longer.”

“Are you—”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Tom says.

“I’ll walk back with him,” Weaver says. “You take your time.” He puts an arm around Ben’s shoulders and begins leading him away. Tom hears him say, “Let’s give your Dad some time, okay?”

Ben’s answering, “Okay,” sounds far, far away to Tom.

Soon he’s all alone at the graves of his two dead sons. There’s a painful twist in his gut when he realizes it took losing Hal to bring him back to Matt’s grave.

“I’m sorry, Matty,” Tom says as he crouches down on his heels between the two graves and gazes out across the field.

The wildflowers of early spring have mostly disappeared, but there are others in their place; flamboyant purples and extravagant oranges spark with color in the swaying sea of grass. And the yellow flowers are still here, there seems to be even more of them now. Maybe they’re more of a summer wildflower; Tom has no idea, but he still hates them.

He stands up again and looks down at the graves, feels the pain in his body—psychic aches that he can’t seem to get rid of. He has a headache from standing in the bright sun in a hot suit; he’s streaming with sweat, but he’s not ready to move yet. Like with Matt, Tom hasn’t cried over Hal, but no one’s started looking at him strangely for it. They will though, Tom knows that; hell, they’re still looking at him weirdly because of Matt. They look at him like that because they don’t _know_.

Only then does it dawn on him that Pope didn’t come to Hal’s funeral either. He doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or grateful this time. Annoyed because Tom wanted him here and grateful because if he had showed, Tom would’ve fallen against him and likely made an ass out of himself. It’s with Pope that he can let this grief go because Pope still doesn’t want anything from him. Pope is an equal who doesn’t _depend_ on Tom. Pope… Pope just takes him as he is and Tom thinks maybe even likes him for it.

It’s as he’s thinking about those things that he notices a shape right inside the tree line and sees tell-tale curls of smoke like snake tongues coiling into the air. Tom squints to focus and there—Pope _is_ there. He’s crouched just within the trees, barely visible except for his smoke and Tom almost sags. He did come after all.

He raises his hand in a wave and Pope waves back, but doesn’t come forward. He’s letting Tom have his privacy, his moment alone with his sons while he hangs back and keeps watch. Tom wonders then: How many times did Pope watch out for him before he ever learned to _see_ it? It hits him like a rock and Tom makes a _huh_ sound in the back of his throat, thinks that maybe all this time—all these years—his casual little flirtations of lust haven’t been totally one-sided after all. No one goes out of their way to annoy another person the way Pope has Tom (and vice versa) unless they want something very specific: the attention of that person.

Tom thinks he has been a blind fool as he takes a seat between the graves of his sons to sit with them a little while longer.

It’s after noon by the time Tom stands up, but when he looks toward that spot again, Pope is still there. Tom walks away after a goodbye to Hal and Matt and goes toward the trees, toward Pope.

He doesn’t stand up until Tom is nearly on top of him and when he does, he tilts his head back for Tom to come into the forest with him. Tom’s about tired of keeping this a secret, but he knows as well as Pope does that letting the cat out of the bag right now would be too much.

Once the forest has closed its curtain around them, Tom puts his arms around Pope and kisses him until they have to stop so they can breathe. He rests his forehead on Pope’s shoulder and makes a low sound of grief in the back of his throat.

“I couldn’t even bury all of him,” Tom says. “They blew him _apart_.”

“I heard it was bad, but I didn’t know that,” Pope kisses the side of Tom’s head, leaves his arms wrapped around him. “I’m really fucking sorry, Professor.”

“So am I,” Tom says, the words a strained whisper.

They stand there like that for awhile, Tom leaning against Pope and sweating through his suit while mosquitoes and midges feast on their flesh. Overhead, a woodpecker hammers away, a crow calls and the wind soughs through the branches and long field grass.

Tom reluctantly pulls away and says, “I need to be with Ben right now, but later can I—”

“You don’t have to ask,” Pope says, taking his face in his hands and pulling him in for another quick kiss. “You know where to find me.”

“Thank you,” Tom says. “Thank you for coming, too, for… being here.”

“Don’t mention it,” Pope says as he takes another step away. “I’ll see you.”

“Soon,” Tom says then he turns and walks away before the desire to stay right here becomes too great.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ben falls asleep in his quarters not long after Tom gets back and he suspects Lourdes or someone else in the infirmary gave him a tranquilizer. He hasn’t been sleeping much since finding out about Hal (then again, neither has Tom) and he needs the rest, so Tom doesn’t worry about it. He takes off his suit, grabs a shower and puts on his familiar jeans and t-shirt then goes down the hall to check on Ben one more time.

Back in his room, Tom lays down on the bed and without meaning to, he dozes off. He dreams he’s back in the house he shared with the boys and Rebecca, the sun streaming through the windows on what feels like a Saturday morning. Matt is coloring a picture with various shades of sickly cyan blue and coughing like he’s coming down with a cold or maybe is getting allergies like Ben. Something is burning in the kitchen, the smell of scorched chicken skin bad enough to make Tom’s stomach do a weak somersault. He’s about to call out to Rebecca, ask her what she’s doing, when Hal’s voice from upstairs sidetracks him: _Hey, Dad, have you seen my legs?_

Tom sits bolt upright in bed with a gasping breath, heart pounding so hard it damn near _hurts_. He wipes sweat out of his eyes and practically throws himself out of the bed. He has to get out of here and he has to do it _now_. He doesn’t _feel_ like he’s losing his mind; he _is_ losing it.

He bolts out into the hallway, barely registering that it’s nearly deserted and that means it must be late, means he must have been asleep longer than he thought. Tom makes a beeline for the exit, thinking mostly about how he cannot _breathe_ , how he has to _go_ and _go now_.

Then he is outside and he doesn’t remember opening the door and feeling fresh air hit his face. He lost a little bit of time because the underground is about a block behind him now. That’s good though, he’s not worried about losing track of himself for a minute; he’s only glad he’s _out_. And he knows exactly where he’s going.

He’s a thrumming livewire by the time he steps inside the house. His mind has barely slowed in its tilt-a-whirl madness, his bones feel like they’re shivering and his skin is trying to crawl right off of him. Tom checks the kitchen first and doesn’t find Pope there, so he heads upstairs, calling his name as he goes.

Pope meets him in the hallway and Tom practically slams into him. He takes his shoulders in his hands, says something like, _I can’t fucking breathe_ and then he kisses him.

“Whoa,” Pope says as he pulls back.

“Please,” Tom says and he doesn’t _care_ how he sounds right now—faraway and _small_. “I can’t, Pope, _I can’t_ and I _need_ …”

“I don’t know if this is a good idea right now. You’re kinda flipping your shit a little bit.” Pope’s tone is not unkind when he says it and Tom even thinks he may be right, but that doesn’t matter. Tom grabs for him again, but Pope easily catches his hands in his and laces their fingers together. “Come in here.”

He leads Tom into the bedroom and to the bed and Tom climbs up after him. He kisses him again and makes a pleading sound in the back of his throat. Pope kisses him back this time, but slows it down, gentles it; won’t let Tom hurl himself against him until he breaks apart. His hand on the side of his neck makes Tom start to tremble as he pushes closer only to pull back again so he can yank his shirt off and throw it aside.

“I can’t make it stop,” Tom says. “It _won’t stop_.”

He practically climbs into Pope’s lap, begging with his mouth and hands and body for Pope to make him forget for a little while. Instead, Pope grabs his face in his hands, looks in his eyes and says, “Tom, slow down. You need to breathe.”

“I can’t! I keep trying and I fucking _can’t_!”

Pope does something unexpected then. He puts his arms around Tom and holds him tight against his chest, hands running up and down his back.

“You’re having a panic attack, that’s what’s going on here. I won’t lie and tell you it’ll be okay, but I’m here.” His voice is fierce when he says it again, “ _I’m right here._ ”

In a weird, see-saw dip of déjà vu, Tom feels himself start to deflate and then collapse. The first sob is soft and dry and then the flood comes all over again as he folds himself into Pope even more, slides down off him until he’s laying on the bed with his head in Pope’s lap, wetting his legs with tears. He’s making sounds like a wounded animal, the noises heaving up out of him until it feels like he’s strained his diaphragm and still, he keeps right on. This pain, this racking _grief_ builds up inside of him until it has nowhere to go but out and when it comes it never seems to want to end.

 _Hey, Dad, have you seen my legs?_ The unwanted recollection has Tom drawing his knees up, turning so his face rests against Pope’s belly and he can snake his arms around him, hold on tighter. Pope never moves and doesn’t make a sound, but he doesn’t let him go either.

After it’s all over for now—Tom thought he had it together and fell apart two more times—they sit shoulder to shoulder in the bed, not talking, just passing a bottle back and forth. The routine is comfortable by now; Tom likes this closeness and the quietness of it. He loves talking to Pope because he can scratch Tom’s still alive and well itch for intellectual conversation, but the silence is good, too.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says after about an hour. Pope starts to speak, but he holds his hand up to shush him. “I am sorry and I _will_ apologize; I can’t keep coming apart on you like this and expecting you to pick up the pieces every time it happens.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Pope says.

“Yes, it is a big deal,” Tom says. “I never… I never would have thought you were the kind to… to…”

“Be nice?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Tom says. “That’s not totally right, but it’ll do. Point being, I feel like I’m taking advantage.”

“You’re not,” Pope says. He sighs, the exhalation ending on what’s almost a groan. “If I give a shit about somebody then that means _I take their shit_ if they need to shrug some of it off. If you want to—need to—come in here and cry all over me because you’re all fucked up about your kids dying then I’ll be here. I don’t mind doing it because… because it’s like I said a second ago.”

“So you give a shit about me, huh?” Tom asks, wondering and touched and yes, _pleased_.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Mason,” Pope says.

Tom coughs out a laugh and leaves it alone; Pope’s probably already said more than he’s comfortable with and he’s not about to push it.

Instead, he leans over and cups the back of Pope’s neck, draws him in and kisses him. 

Pope pulls back enough to see Tom’s face in the moonlight. “Are you sure?”

“I swear I’m okay,” Tom says. “Not… No, I’m _not_ okay, but I’m okay _enough_. I… damnit…” Words seldom fail him, but articulating what he’s trying to say right now is proving to be a difficult task.

“I got it,” Pope says.

He cups Tom’s cheek and draws him back in for a deeper kiss, fingers of his other hand ticking down Tom’s ribs like they are piano keys.

They move apart long enough to undress and for Pope to grab the lube, then Tom slides back across the huge bed to Pope. He hesitates for a second then throws his leg over Pope’s lap, straddling him where he’s half-sitting with his back against the headboard. They’ve had sex a few (okay, many) times since the first time, but never like this. Tom wants it this way though, wants to be able to look and see Pope’s face not hidden in shadows because even with Tom in his lap, shafts of moonlight from the open windows fall across him.

Pope licks and sucks at his throat, probably leaving marks that they’re usually careful about, but Tom doesn’t care anymore. He tilts his head to the side to make it easier for Pope to nip and lightly bite at the tendons in his neck and shivers chase themselves across his skin. He never would have thought the tiny pain of pinching teeth or the pressure of fingers against his hips could give him so much pleasure, but they do.

When Pope slicks his fingers with lube then urges Tom to lift up just enough he can ease himself down on two at once, his mouth falls open on a gasp. The angle and depth of penetration is different like this; deeper, better almost.

“Move,” Pope says against his jaw.

So, Tom moves, riding Pope’s fingers and feeling a dirty thrill at the thought. He’s figured out that Pope _likes_ doing this; it might not be one hundred percent necessary anymore, but he does it anyway because he can watch better. Tom has come to realize that Pope is a bit of voyeur, but he’s also realized that he doesn’t mind being watched—so long as it’s only Pope doing the watching.

He doesn’t take his fingers away until Tom’s breathing is ragged and his hips are jerking on their own, an embarrassing little thing that seems to please Pope a lot. He holds himself steady while Tom slowly lowers himself down on Pope’s cock, mouth falling open again at the familiar and yet, still new sensation of being penetrated.

He rocks against Pope experimentally and moans as he leans forward to wrap his fingers through the cold iron of the headboard. It takes a couple of tries for Tom to find the right combination of rhythm and balance, but he does. They move together, Tom’s mouth open, panting as he tips his head back. Little chills roll over his body and his mind goes blissfully _blank_ , lost in a haze of pleasure and the feel of Pope’s hands on his waist.

Tom starts out with his fingers wrapped around the metal curlicues of the headboard, but he moves closer until his arms are wrapped around Pope, their sweaty cheeks pressed together, the rasp of stubble adding to the sounds in the room. They’re barely moving, Tom slowly rocking up and down an inch or so at a time as he moans. Pope slides a hand between their bodies and takes Tom’s cock in his hand. He moans louder then, that sensation coupled with the ones twisting him into knots on the inside. Tom closes his eyes and chases the pleasure of it as Pope sets his teeth lightly against the curve of his shoulder. Tom’s breathing grows uneven and rapid, sweat prickling out in fresh beads on his skin.

He turns his head from Pope’s shoulder to look down into his eyes as he trembles again, starting to tense up. Pope licks his mouth and grins at him, teeth shining in the moonlight as he watches Tom’s face. It pulls a deep-throated moan out of Tom that rises to almost a cry. He buries his face back against Pope’s shoulder, breath coming in gasps as Pope twists his hand around the head of his cock with delicious friction. Tom shudders and moans, all of it nearly too much to stand.

“That’s it, Professor,” Pope whispers. “That’s it, baby, come on. I’ve got you”

Something about the way he says it; teasing and coaxing and surprisingly sweet all at the same time; his voice a rough growl, does Tom in just like it does damn near _every_ time. Pope has never called him by a pet name before though and Tom finds he _likes_ knowing this side of Pope—a side he’s pretty sure not many people have ever seen.

Tom’s orgasm breaks through him in slow waves, pulling sounds out of Tom’s mouth he’s never made before. He holds tightly to Pope, bites down on his shoulder without thinking and hears the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath. Tom shudders against him as his pleasure bleeds through his body, washing his mind clean of everything but this. 

When Pope comes a minute later, he bites Tom back and pulls a tired moan out of his throat as he rocks against him.

“Damn,” Pope says against Tom’s shoulder as he pets his hands up and down his back.

“That sums it up, I think,” Tom says. He doesn’t want to move, but knows he needs to and so, carefully gets out of Pope’s lap to lay down beside him. He needs to go wash off, but not right this second; he needs to catch his breath first.

Pope stretches out on the bed beside him and Tom scoots closer, used to the heat and sweat by now and not caring about it. “I need to tell you something,” Tom says.

“What?” Pope says.

“I’m glad I know you,” Tom says. “And I promise, I won’t ever say anything that cheesy again.”

“Please don’t,” Pope says. “Because really, man… no. Don’t ever do that again.”

Tom can tell he’s pleased though by the quick smile that tugs at one corner of his mouth, there and gone again in the moonlight so fast that Tom could almost believe he imagined it. That and it’s in the way Pope slides even closer a moment later and kisses him again with one hand curled possessively against Tom’s hip.

And no, Tom will never say it again, but he’s glad he said it this one time because it needed to be said—and because it’s true. His sorrow is still there, sick and yearning to tear him apart, but it’s being kept at bay right now. The biggest part of the reason why is because of Pope; Tom can’t—won’t—deny it. It’s not the sex (though the sex is nice) it really is everything—the conversation, the presence, the feeling like he’s on equal footing again and even the little snapping turtle arguments they still have about the most ridiculous things. Really, it’s just _Pope_.

Tom closes his eyes and thinks, _Oh, hell_ when it hits him: He has gone and fallen in love with Pope without even being aware of it until now.

Tom takes a few minutes to simply lay there while the realization that he is _in_ love with this man lying beside him rattles around in his head. He can’t say he’s stunned that it has happened, he knew it was a possibility, after all. For the understanding to have sneaked up on him then cheerfully kicked him square in the pants like it did is another matter entirely.

“I can’t stay,” Tom says after awhile.

“I didn’t think you could,” Pope says. He runs his fingers through Tom’s hair, petting him, relaxing him. “You need to be there for your kid.”

He doesn’t want to go back, though not because of Ben; he can’t—and won’t—leave him alone for too long right now. Tom doesn’t want to go back, _period_ ; not to the stale air and clusters of people and oatmeal everyday and expectations of orderly behavior. Ben doesn’t stay there much anyway, Tom can keep an eye on him outside of there as well as he can inside. It’s been different the last few days because of Hal and he’s going to go back tonight for his son. After that, when Ben’s grief is under control and he starts to live again… then Tom doesn’t know.

“I don’t want to stay there anymore,” Tom says. He blurts it out, voice louder than he means for it to be. “I don’t. I hate the way people look at me and the closeness of the walls and the sounds all day and night and feeling like I’m living inside a fishbowl.”

“So don’t stay there anymore,” Pope says.

“It’s not that simple,” Tom says.

“Sure it is,” Pope says. “You’re the one making it complicated.”

“Weaver will give me thirty different kinds of hell about it,” Tom says.

“Tell Weaver to kiss your ass,” Pope says. “Since when do you bow down to him?”

“Since never, but he is the leader of the fighters and just… Damnit.” Tom sighs and scrubs a hand over his face before he opens his eyes to look at Pope. “I feel trapped down there; now more than ever.”

“Then _leave_ ,” Pope says. “Pack your shit and walk out. There is no law that says you have to stay down there and even if there was… well. There are ways around laws.”

“And go _where_ though?” Tom says. “I don’t want to leave Charleston or Ben or—” _You._ He licks his lips and tells himself to tread carefully or just shut up.

“You can be a real dumbass sometimes,” Pope says.

Tom narrows his eyes, jaw clenching as he pushes himself up on his elbow.

Pope only shakes his head, grinning and amused at Tom’s annoyance.

“I didn’t think you meant you wanted to leave the _settlement_ ,” Pope says. He sits up, too, facing Tom and sighs as he rubs the bridge of his nose. “You can stay here if you want to.”

“Wait.” Tom’s annoyance melts at that, trickling down into dumbstruck surprise. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“No, Mason,” Pope says. “I am _offering_ to let you stay here since you don’t want to live _there_ anymore. There’s a difference.”

“Not really,” Tom says.

“Yes, really,” Pope argues. “Offer’s on the table, take if you want it.”

He lies back down again and closes his eyes. Tom’s mouth twitches with the want to smile, but he bites his lip against it. Pope’s offer is the only _good_ thing he’s heard in days.

He leans close to Pope and whispers in his ear, “I think I _will_ take that offer.”

“Get it while you can,” Pope says without opening his eyes. “Quantities _are_ limited.”

That jerks a laugh out of Tom. “What?”

“I used to watch a lot of infomercials,” Pope says. “Insomnia.”

“Got it,” Tom says.

If he does this though, moves in with Pope—accepts his offer to _stay_ here, Tom corrects himself—then it’s all going to blow up sooner or later. People will find out, they will know and then the shit will hit the fan at least with Weaver and Ben. Tom thinks about that a second, wonders if there’s a way to get around that much and thinks there is—for now. Eventually this is going to come out ( _Bad pun,_ Tom thinks) and then what? He can’t say he cares what Weaver or anyone else might have to say about it, but Ben won’t like it either and he _does_ care about that. This, what he and Pope have, isn’t going to go away anytime soon though, nor does he want it to. Tom is sick of sneaking around like a naughty child or a dog that has chewed up the furniture even though it knows it isn’t supposed to.

“Look, if you’re worried about what to say or do, tell Weaver you want to join back up with my crew,” Pope says as he rolls onto his back. “If he tells you no then tell him ‘fuck you’ and say you’re gonna do it anyway. He won’t try _too_ hard to stop you because he likes you.”

It startles Tom that he can do that, like he can almost read his mind sometimes. It’s eerie and it’s not a new thing. Not only that, but Pope can smell Tom’s particular brand of bullshit from a mile away; all he needs to do is think about what happened after their plane crashed to know that. That thought leads to another: Pope kept watch over him that night, too. Tom tried to make him leave, tried to do the _noble_ (as Pope would call it) thing and make him save himself. But he didn’t. He stayed right there and kept an eye on things while Tom curled up and waited to die. And he stayed by his bedside afterward.

 _My God,_ Tom thinks. _I am so blind._

He props his chin on Pope’s chest and looks up at him. “I can do that.”

“Welcome aboard then,” Pope says.

“Thanks,” Tom says. He moves up to kiss Pope, sliding his arm over his waist and sinking into the feel of Pope’s hand on his shoulder.

Pope’s suggestion has made Tom realize something else, too—he doesn’t want to be a fighter anymore; they’re too tactical. He wants to go out and blow things up and break heads and generally wreak havoc; as a fighter he’s constrained by more rules than that. As one of Pope’s crew, he’s got license to do the things others don’t do—and the things others _won’t_ do. His hatred of the Espheni has never waned, but after what happened to Hal it’s a seething, writhing thing under his skin. Where it was mere anger and disdain before, now it is furious, lava-hot rage. He can exercise— _exorcise_ —that rage with Pope’s crew in a way that he can’t as a mere fighter without earning himself reprimands and scoldings and eventual removal from the front line.

“Now go,” Pope says when they pull apart. “You don’t want your kid thinking his daddy has abandoned him.”

“Dick.”

Tom elbows Pope in the side hard enough to make him grunt before he rolls out of bed to start pulling on his clothes.

“You keep calling me names like that, Mason, and I might start thinking you’re sweet on me,” Pope says as he rubs his side.

Tom snorts and doesn’t say anything as he pulls his shirt on. He’s learned Pope’s sense of humor by now, knows he doesn’t actually mean a damn thing by what he said. It’s why it doesn’t actually piss Tom off, even if he isn’t what he’d call _charmed_ by the wording. That and he sees it as the thump-on-the-head nudge it was meant to be to get him up and moving again.

Tom, dressed now except for his boots, crawls back onto the bed and leans over Pope to kiss him again. Pope’s hands on the side of his face, fingers sliding into his hair, makes Tom want to lay back down and _stay_. But he can’t and he’s not an irresponsible piece of crap that would actually do something like that.

Still, when he pulls back, he says, “Maybe I am _sweet_ on you, Pope.”

Then he’s off the bed and gone, boots dangling from his hand. He wishes he hadn’t said that and is simultaneously glad he did while also enjoying Pope’s stunned silence. It’s a rare thing to shock him enough he can’t come back with some snazzy smartass rejoinder.

Tom’s already in the upstairs hall, feeling the weight of his loss settling back over him like a lead shroud when he hears, “Huh,” from the bedroom. It’s faint, but audible and for one second more, Tom feels like a human being and his pleased laugh echoes off the high ceilings.

Then it’s down the stairs and further away with every step he takes, back to low ceilings, cinderblock walls, the strangely antiseptic smell of desperation and the stench of his own grief. Tom thinks this works out in one way though—being on Pope’s crew means he’ll be there to watch his back at least. Now, if only he could figure out what to do to keep Ben in his sights more.

He’s finding that with every minute that passes where he has no choice but to think about it, he wants to lock Ben away somewhere no one and nothing can ever get to him to hurt him or even be able to come close. He can’t take him out of the fight though; if he did try then Ben would bail out and go live with the Skitters again and he’d lose him for sure. Maybe though, _maybe_ if he can talk Pope into it then perhaps Ben and the rebels can pair up with the Berserkers and that would take care of that. Tom could keep his eye on them that way and never again have to fear coming in from a fight to find out he’s lost one or both of them while he was away.


	5. Fear of Dreaming

_Time searched the hallways_   
_for a mind._   
_Hands kept time._   
_The climate altered like a_   
_visible dance._

— Jim Morrison

The days after Hal’s funeral are long and somber. If things were merely _grey_ after Matt’s death then they’re also made of ash now: everything waiting to crumble at the slightest touch. Tom hasn’t approached Weaver yet because Ben is still around; Tom can’t go yet and for his son, he has patience he would otherwise lack at this juncture in his life.

Irrevocable, catastrophic change has warped him into someone he has trouble recognizing sometimes. There are days he stares at his reflection in plexiglass doors pondering the age old question: _Friend or foe?_ He does this while pretending to listen to someone talking to him (usually Weaver or Ben, sometimes Anthony). He only pulls himself out of his own head to _hear_ Ben though, otherwise he grunts and nods in the right places, occasionally offers a few syllables: That so? Interesting. Yes. No. Maybe.

Tom still makes himself get up each day—it’s old hat by now—he walks around occasionally and talks to people who will talk to him. Sometimes, he even smiles and it doesn’t matter if the smiles aren’t real. It doesn’t matter that he’d rather lie face down on the floor with his arms and legs sprawled at extreme angles in some melodramatic demonstration of his pain: _I am roadkill. See?_ Fortunately, Tom has never been a terribly demonstrative individual or else he’d be well and truly humiliated by himself. _Pay no attention to the man on the floor…_

He laughs right out loud at the thought when it comes to him and people stop what they’re doing to turn and look at him with wide-eyed leeriness. Tom Mason’s gotten spooky these days, that’s what some people say. Anthony is walking beside him, takes his arm and leads him on while Tom snorts and _giggles_ until he stops as abruptly as he started. If he tried to explain what was so funny it would only exacerbate things, so he doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, he starts a conversation about ammo with Anthony. It seems to relax him and soon, Anthony at least has put it out of his mind.

People have started to look at Tom funny anyway, exactly as he knew they would. There are mildly suspicious looks, sidelong glances, whispers like a fog around him when he walks past. Some people outright glare and some are about two heartbeats away from open hostility. Eventually, someone will say something to him and Tom’s not sorry when he thinks he may have to beat their faces in for the trouble. They’ve started to think he’s less than human because of what they _perceive_ his reaction to be. There are people who once talked to him that actively avoid him now. There’s pity, too, though—no short supply of that—and every sad-eyed look, every shaking head, every pair of eyes that won’t meet his are the worst. The _worst_.

He’s trapped in the circle again, the one where he thinks, _Show me how to do it right._ Maybe there’s a flow chart somewhere that accurately depicts the path his mourning should follow: Cry here. Wring hands there. Start kicking things in an outburst of emotional trauma in T-minus 5… 4… 3… Count each tear, make sure there aren’t too few or too many. Muffle your sobbing behind bleeding knuckles. These are your stages of grief. Please follow them accordingly and predictably, thank you.

Despite his attempts at appearing sociable and functional, Tom spends most of his time in his quarters. His excursions—when they happen at all—don’t last over a couple of hours. Mostly, he hangs out with Ben; they don’t always talk, but they keep each others sadness company. Sometimes when they do talk, they talk about Matt and Hal. Or rather, Ben talks about them and Tom listens, tries to pretend every memory that comes isn’t the equivalent of having barbed wire dragged over his brain. He pats Ben’s knee and lets him lean on his shoulder when he gets overcome. He holds his son and tells him he’s _so sorry_ and Ben looks at him like he doesn’t understand.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Dad,” he says, blinking teary eyes.

“I guess not.” It’s a lie to Tom, but Ben nods like it’s the God’s honest truth.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Ben says. “You _can’t_ , you didn’t do it, not any of it.”

_Be that as it may…_

“No, you’re right,” Tom says. “You’re right.”

“Yeah,” Ben says. He frowns then and tips his head to the side, studying Tom. “You don’t _really_ think it’s your fault, do you? You don’t actually think that you _killed_ —”

“No, Ben,” Tom says. He almost yells it at him and takes a breath, makes himself gentle his tone. “No, of course not. I’m just… trying to make sense of it all.”

Ben’s quiet for awhile, but then he nods though the look on his face says he isn’t entirely convinced.

“Come on, Dad, let’s go get some lunch,” he says.

“You go on,” Tom says. “I’m not hungry.”

“ _Dad_.” Ben’s voice is sharp with worry and exasperation. “You hardly ate anything at breakfast this morning. You need to eat.”

Actually, he didn’t eat anything at all for breakfast; he scraped it into a napkin when no one was looking. He drank his coffee though. He wishes he had more

“I said I’m not hungry, Ben.” Tom does snap at him this time and doesn’t try to reel it in. “I’ll come with you if you want me to, but I don’t feel like eating.”

“Don’t… don’t worry about it,” Ben says. “I’ll bring you something back. Some people have been gathering plums, maybe one of those?”

“Sure,” Tom says. “If they have coffee bring me a cup, huh?”

“Swear you’ll eat the plum if I bring one though. Dad, _please_.”

“You have my word,” Tom says. “I promise to eat the plum.” _Smile, damnit. There. Okay._ “How could I turn down fresh fruit?”

Ben looks eager now, snatching at whatever he can—Tom’s promise to eat the plum, the want for coffee. For Ben it’s a bit of proof that maybe he’s not starving himself half to death because everything tastes like drywall, gets hung up in his throat and makes him gag.

“Great!” Ben says. It’s the most cheered he’s been in a while. “I’ll be back soon.”

“All right,” Tom says. “See you in a bit.”

Ben leaves and Tom sits in his usual spot on the side of the bed, fingers laced between his knees, looking at the door. He’s mentioned Tom’s weight loss far too much for him to be happy about it. Weaver’s started bringing it up, too and he wishes they’d be quiet. He gets a little dizzy sometimes, but mostly he’s okay. He knows he should eat, but he doesn’t want to. Tom’s always been bad at doing as he’s told, so the barrage of, _You need to eat_ and _Tom, eat something_ and Ben’s admittedly amusing, _Food, Dad: put it in your belly_ does no good.

Weaver has noticed other things, too, things that make Tom fidget and want to snarl. They make him want to jump up and down and yell, _Yes, that’s it! You got me!_ because this is a secret he doesn’t like feeling as though he _has_ to keep. The marks Pope left on him after Hal’s funeral faded after the first day, except the bruise on his shoulder. Weaver noticed the marks on Tom’s neck before that could happen though and he took Tom aside to ask if he’s _been_ seeing someone. He thought he had figured out the secret behind Tom Mason’s midnight wanderings: They have been leading him to some lady’s bed. Tom tried to put him off about it, but Weaver shook his head and said it was okay, that no one would hold it against him. He said people would understand.

Tom’s smile had been very real when he’d said, “No, Dan, they wouldn’t.”

He goes out to see Pope when he can slip away from Ben; he’s been sleeping in Tom’s room a good bit, so most nights he has to stay in. Tom helps him fix up the house by lantern light on the nights he goes though. Pope is invested in getting it back to as close to normal as possible and Tom is finding he’s invested in that, too. It’s a comfortable kind of work, giving him something to do with his hands, something to focus all of his attention on.

Tom cannot stop marveling at the things Pope finds and wonders if he’s ever gotten over the insomnia he mentioned having and doesn’t think he has. If he slept more then he would never have the time to go out to forage and dig through the rubble the way he does. Technically, Tom is sure that some of what Pope does is still considered looting in a small fragment of societal ideology that remains, but Tom can’t make himself view it that way. He’s started considering it the _re-homing_ of things.

Tom reaches up to his shoulder without thinking and begins methodically pressing and kneading at the muscle there. He closes his tired eyes and sighs at the ache of it. Tom has dug his fingers into the bruise until it is a black mark on his skin. It’s bigger now; it wasn’t much more than a bluish smudge at first, but now it has spread and darkened into a stain beneath his skin. It eases something inside his mind to nurture the once tiny pain and make it grow into something deep and throbbing.

He’s still doing it when Ben comes back, grinning at him as he gives Tom a big cup of coffee then reaches into his pockets and withdraws two plums.

“I talked Jeanne into giving me an extra,” Ben says. “You need the sustenance.”

“Sustenance, huh?” Tom says with a smile as he takes his hand from his shoulder. The ache is brilliant and sinuous, snaking all the way down his back.

He puts his coffee aside after a scalding swallow then takes the plums from Ben and juggles them for him. He loved it when Tom would juggle for him when he was little and it still makes him smile and laugh. Tom’s buying time with his son’s laughter, thinking how he has to eat _two_ plums now because he gave his word. 

_It’s best to get it over with._

Tom stops juggling the fruit, polishes one on his shirt, making as much of a show out of it as he can before taking a bite. It’s ripe and full of juice that runs out of the corners of his mouth to soak his beard. The flesh is a deep golden color, the skin a burnished orange-yellow. It’s a beautiful piece of fruit and Tom thinks about that as he chews and doesn’t taste it at all.

After Ben’s gone to his room for the night, Tom takes his belt off and very carefully pokes two new holes in it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Four days after Tom engages in his little bit of wardrobe carpentry, Deni comes by and asks Ben if he wants to go for a walk. Ben nods and gets up, looking almost relieved by the invitation.

Before he goes, he hugs Tom and says, “Go eat dinner, okay? Like… the whole meal, not just ten lima beans or something.”

Tom bites back his annoyance at the nagging and nods. “Okay,” he says. He doesn’t say, _I promise_ this time. He’s always tried not to make promises he can’t or won’t keep.

Ben leaves and Tom sits on the bed and fingers the bruise on his shoulder—the blackout, the smudge, the great undoer of thoughts.

Tom does go down to the cafeteria, picks up a tray and brings it back to his room. The volume level in the area dropped by half the second people caught sight of him. Sitting in a roomful of people makes him uncomfortable lately, makes his _teeth_ itch with the want to get up and walk out. Tom eats all of his mashed potatoes and one and a half slices of bread. He does not, however, touch his lima beans—though the fact there actually are lima beans on the menu tonight amuses him.

After that first walk, Ben starts going off more and by the end of the second week since Deni came by, he’s usually gone by the time Tom wakes up—which is later and later all the time. Ben doesn’t come back all night one night, which drives Tom up the wall until he makes himself calm down. He reminds himself that this is what Ben _does_ now and that he’s okay; it’s a _good thing_ he’s out all night again. Ben’s getting back to living and Tom is _so glad_ that his heart feels like a balloon when the weight of that worry is lifted from it.

Tom, on the other hand, is still idling around in this tomb and he thinks now is as good a time as ever to put an end to that. Despite his more frequent trips to visit Pope now that Ben’s up and about more, he’s still dragging his bones back to the shelter when all he wants to do is stay in the house and sleep next to Pope. It’s there that Tom can feel almost normal again, like his lungs aren’t stuffed into dry cleaning bags and his head is full of sand. 

So, on one such day that he wakes up to find Ben hasn’t come in from the night before, he goes back to his quarters to shower and dress in his tidiest clothes. He hitches up his pants one last time and makes a note to poke another hole in his belt before he walks out of the room to find Weaver. They’re overdue for a talk.

That evening, Tom walks out of the shelter with a bag in one hand and his rifle on his shoulder. It’s pouring rain, late afternoon looking closer to night as lightning flares across the sky. Just outside the heavy exit doors, Tom tips his head back and lets the rain sluice over him, soaking him through. He breathes in the clean scent of the air, gets water up his nose and snorts it out again as he starts walking.

Weaver is pissed and flabbergasted, but Pope was right—he let Tom go after a pretty long argument and an inquiry of, _Have you lost your ever-loving mind?!_ Tom’s calm shrug had stilled him, had slapped his mouth shut and left Weaver staring at him with a helpless kind of worried anger. Tom has no doubt Weaver is his friend, but like a lot of people he doesn’t know what to _do_ with (or for) Tom these days.

To further try and dissuade him, Weaver reminded him of the “fight” he had with Pope not all that long ago. Tom nodded, said he remembered, but that was then and this is now. Of course, he knows it wasn’t really a fight just like he knows Hal got up in Pope’s face about it when he found out, Maggie slapped him and Weaver went to his bar and reamed him out in front of his crew. Pope took it all and let himself become the villain in the story when in reality he was more like the hero. Tom makes a mental note to never mention anything to Pope about being heroic though; he doesn’t think he’d like that much.

In the end, Weaver lost because Tom played his other card. He told Weaver, “If you tell me no, I’ll do it anyway. I’m asking you out of respect to give me your nod on this, Dan.”

“I’ll give you my nod then,” Weaver had said after a long pause. “But you don’t have my blessing, Tom.”

Tom had sighed and stood up, offered his hand for Weaver to take. “I can live with that,” he’d said.

“I know you can,” Weaver said as he squeezed Tom’s hand then stood up to pull him into a rough hug. “If you’re intent on living with them, too, like you say you are then go on before I change my mind.”

“Thanks,” Tom had said. Then he’d turned and walked away, raising a hand in acknowledgement of having heard Weaver’s, _And eat something, damnit!_ He’d made himself lift all five fingers in that backwards wave, a feat worthy of note given how irritating he’s started to find that sort of thing.

He found Ben and told him what he was doing and he’d been confused, but finally said, “Do what you think you have to do, Dad.”

Ben thinks he’s going to live in the old hotel with Pope’s crew and he doesn’t know how he’s going to cover that lie when Ben comes looking for him there as he’s bound to do eventually. Tom figures he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. He might blow it sky-high, actually because again, the weight of this secret bears down on him. He knows Ben will be upset, but like Weaver, he’ll get over it. Pope hasn’t said anything nasty about Ben in a long while now and if Ben will only give him a _chance_ then this can work. _It can._ It has to because Tom will not let it go. However, until he can figure out how to make everything mesh without short-circuiting the individual components, he’ll keep quiet.

Tom shakes his shaggy hair back from his face, raking his fingers through it to slick it back and leave it plastered to his skull. The rain is a sheet blowing in the wind, falling hard and stinging as it whips in from the direction of the harbor. It is summer and this is the South; it occurs to Tom that there are hurricanes here. It’s a belated thought, but now that he’s had it, he raises his eyebrows as he splashes through a puddle and considers the possibility. Probably not; there’s wind, but it’s not _strong_ wind, which is an indicator of hurricanes and tropical storms. No, he figures this is actually a run of the mill summer thunderstorm; all hustle and boom, but with little chance of flooding or property loss.

The streets are empty, which is a rare sight for this time of day. Tom knows people have huddled inside to keep out of the weather though. He can feel eyes on him when he passes some buildings, faces peering out of streaked glass with eyes that look like black saucers in the weird sulfur-colored light and smoky shadows. He takes a roundabout way to the house regardless; he has an idea Pope doesn’t want people know where he’s at and Tom doesn’t want the local rumor mill spreading it around that he’s living in some mansion now.

Past the main drag there aren’t as many people and after a couple more streets, he stops feeling eyes on him altogether, stops seeing any signs of life at all other than the dogs that wander around like phantoms.

He turns onto the street that the house—Pope’s house; _their_ house is on and picks up his pace. The lightning paints everything in blinding blue-violet flashes of light and Tom moves on.

He steps through the wall into the garden a few minutes later and looks at it with raised eyebrows. Pope’s been busy out here, too, he sees—weeds have been pulled, roses have been dead-headed, the gladiolus and gorgeous bearded irises have been staked to keep them from falling over, the patch of mint has been thinned back to a more manageable size and no longer threatens to take over the lawn by the porch. It’s been a couple of days since Tom was here and in that time, the plants in the small garden Pope keeps have grown by leaps and bounds. There will be peas to shell soon and zucchini to bring in, cherry tomatoes hang in thick clusters on drooping vines. He’s definitely got a green thumb though he does not appreciate being called Farmer John, but Tom does it anyway sometimes to needle him a bit.

Tom stops right inside the door and calls loudly to be heard over the rain. “Pope!”

“Back here! And wipe your feet!” Pope calls back from the kitchen.

Tom laughs and steps back outside to dutifully wipe his feet on the mat that Pope has found somewhere. He smirks when he notices that it does not say _welcome_ , it’s just plain brown sisal. Then he goes back inside and deeper into the house to find Pope.

“Hey,” Tom says when he walks into the kitchen.

Pope turns to look at him, knife in hand and the smell of thyme heavy in the air. He glances at Tom’s face then down at the bag in his hand before rubbing a hand over his mouth. Tom sees the way his eyes crinkle a bit at the corners though before he turns away.

“You look like a drowned rat,” Pope says. He lays his knife down and brushes his hands off. “Which means you’re dripping all over the damned floor. Stay there and I’ll get you a towel.”

Tom laughs at his grousing as knot after knot of tension comes undone in his muscles, the leaden weight inside his belly easing up a bit as well. As he goes to walk by, Tom drops his bag to grab Pope around the waist and pull him against his body. Pope doesn’t resist only quirks an eyebrow at him before he leans in and kisses Tom.

“Now we both need a towel,” he says a moment later. “Thanks, Mason. See, I’m smart; I stay inside when it rains.”

“You won’t melt,” Tom says.

“Nope,” Pope says with a smirk and then kisses Tom again.

He pushes Tom back then stoops to pick up his bag. “Your clothes are probably soaked, too,” he says as water drips from the bottom of the bag to puddle on the floor.

Tom shrugs, he feels pretty damn chipper about that for some reason.

“I’ve got a line strung up in the laundry room,” Pope says. “Go do that while I get you a towel and dry clothes.”

“You’re such a good host,” Tom says as he moves off.

“Bite me,” Pope says.

A little while later finds Tom sitting at the long, shining dining room table in Pope’s Machine Head t-shirt and a pair of his jeans that are about a mile too big on him now. He’s staring down at a plate of braised rabbit in red wine sauce with wild mushroom risotto on the side—it’s not _exactly_ risotto, Pope explained, he had to use long grain rice since he couldn’t find Arborio, but it’s close enough. The food is on actual Blue Willow china and he’s got a fork in his hand that is made of silver, not aluminum or plastic. He’s taking all of this in by the light of two truly impressive pillar candles that stand in mismatched crystal bowls instead of candleholders.

Tom points at one with his fork. “Where in God’s name did you find those?”

“I found ‘em yesterday,” Pope says. “I ventured out to downtown; I don’t know what it used to be—historical district, artsy-fartsy district or just plain old tourist trap district, but there was a candle shop. Let me tell you, too, it was a _goldmine_. People didn’t think about candles much, I guess, not even after the power went out, so I got a good haul. Made three trips.”

“Three trips of _candles_?” Tom asks.

“I like to stockpile,” Pope says. “I also found an art gallery that hadn’t had its backroom ransacked. Got some great pieces there and then there was a bookstore. I keep meaning to find the library, but I’ll save that for another day. So, no, it wasn’t only candles… it was only _mostly_ candles.”

“Sounds productive,” Tom says. “You still have insomnia, don’t you?”

Pope gestures at his massive candle-monsters and nods. “It was and yes, I do. I haven’t slept in _years_ , not since I was about fourteen.”

“That’s a long time,” Tom says.

“You get used to it,” Pope says. “I must get enough sleep or else I’d be nuttier than squirrel shit by now.”

Tom laughs and picks at his rabbit. “Yeah, I guess so.” He wishes he had insomnia, actually and wonders if there’s a way he can give it to himself.

Pope pours himself more wine then tops Tom’s glass off.

“You’re wasting good food there,” Pope says. “ _My_ good food. Don’t insult me by not eating it.”

“I’m eating.”

“You’re full of shit. You’re picking. Eat.”

“I am getting tired of people telling me to eat. I eat.”

“Your bones poking up through my shirt would suggest otherwise,” Pope says. He pushes Tom’s hair out of his face then runs his fingers down the sharp curve of his cheek bone. “Eat.”

Tom sighs and thinks that if it’ll shut Pope up at least then he’ll eat. He shovels a forkful of risotto-but-not into his mouth and chews. He grunts in the back of his throat—he can taste it. Not much, but it’s definitely there and he wonders at that, wonders if he’s getting over his grief—he can’t be, that isn’t possible. Pope is a fine cook though and that may be it—he actually knows how to season food and due to his enterprising nature, he’s not subsisting on oatmeal and canned chicken.

“It’s good,” Tom says. “But about these mushrooms…”

“They’re not going to kill you or make you see pink elephants,” Pope says. “I found a book about the wild edibles of North Carolina. It has _pictures_ , too. Helpful shit there.”

“Still…”

“I’ve been eating these things since they came in season and have neither poisoned myself or tripped balls,” Pope says. He tilts his head and considers. “Though I wouldn’t _mind_ tripping balls if I thought it was safe enough. I know what those mushrooms look like, too.”

“Of course you do,” Tom says around a mouthful of rabbit. It melts in his mouth and tastes much better than he ever thought rabbit could taste. He always thought it would be stringy and gamey, but this is neither of those things and he says so.

Pope puffs up at that. “It’s all in how you cook it. Now keep eating.”

“Shut up,” Tom says. He eats more anyway, clearing about half of his plate before he’s had more than he can stomach—literally, he feels a touch queasy with all of the rich food (and just food, period) floating around in his stomach.

Pope actually studies his plate when he pushes it aside and finally nods.

“Good enough for now,” he says.

“Thanks,” Tom says dryly.

“You look like hell,” Pope says. “You were thin to begin with and you’ve been losing weight steadily for the last few months. I think some people would call that a developing eating disorder.” He cocks his head in thought. “Or maybe a developed one.”

“I am not anorexic,” Tom says, aggravated at the implication. Actually, no, it’s not an implication; Pope just called him anorexic, but not in so many words.

“Then what would you call it? Eating challenged?”

“I’d call it mind your own business,” Tom snaps.

“ _You_ are my fucking business,” Pope snaps back. He drains his wine then refills the glass.

Tom picks up the bottle when he sets it aside and empties it into his goblet. Annoyed as he is—actually pretty close to angry at this point—he still likes knowing Pope considers him his business. He also likes knowing Pope found extra hangers for his clothes to go in the master bedroom closet when they’re dry. Pope can call it what he wants to, but Tom’s _not_ just staying with him. He’s _living_ with him.

“What are we going to tell people?” Tom asks, wanting to change the subject before they get into it and also actually wanting to _know_ if Pope has any thoughts about that.

“About your anorexia?” Pope asks. “Nothing. It’s none of anyone else’s business.”

“Stop it, _John_ ,” Tom says. “I don’t mean my anor— _Jesus_. My lack of an eating disorder. I mean us. What are we going to tell people about us?”

“ _We_ aren’t really anybody’s fucking business either,” Pope says. “And don’t call me that, _Thomas_.”

Tom rubs his forehead and tries again. “It is Ben’s business, like it or not; he’s my son and he’s a part of my life just like… just like… you are and I can’t keep lying to him about it.”

Pope sighs and pushes his plate aside. He leans back in his chair with his wine and looks at the ceiling. Rain is still pounding down outside, hitting the windows with wet scrabbling sounds every time the wind blows. It feels closed in here like this, like they’re in a universe all their own.

“I don’t know,” Pope says at last. “I really don’t know. I don’t _care_ what anyone has to say about any of it. You’re the one with the reputation to worry about, not me. Who gives a shit what _they_ say? As for Ben… No, I still don’t know, but I do get it, okay? He’s your kid even if he is—”

“Don’t,” Tom warns. “I swear to God if you call him a mutant or a freak or _anything_ …”

Pope cuts his eyes to the side and holds his hands up. “All right, all right, calm down, Mama Bear. I solemnly swear not to say shitty things about your kid anymore. Better?”

“Yes,” Tom says. He even smiles a bit.

“I might slip up from time to time and I don’t pretend to understand it or like it, but I’ll be cool,” Pope says. “I’ll _try_.”

That he’s willing to try does mean something and it does matter because Pope is pretty hard-set against certain things. He can change his mind and his opinion, too; Tom has seen him do it. He thinks if he gets to know Ben then he’ll _see_ that he’s not some awful thing that will turn on them one day. Tom hopes that Ben will see the same things about Pope.

“If you do then I’ll pop you one and you can consider it a reminder,” Tom says. “But thank you. Seriously, thank you.”

Pope grins around the mouth of his wineglass and lowers it to ask, “Do I get a gold star, Professor?”

“Oh, I think you get an A-plus,” Tom says.

“Really now?” Pope asks as he puts his hand on Tom’s thigh. “Tell me, Mr. Teacher, is there any way I can earn extra credit?”

Tom blinks at him, stupefied for a second. Then he throws his head back and laughs, the sound raining back down from the high ceiling to fall around them. The sound of his laughter is a surprise to Tom—it’s so loud and _genuine_ that for a second he can hardly believe it is actually coming out of his mouth. It has been a long time since he laughed this way, with real mirth instead of bitterness or that lopsided giggle he’s developed lately. The latter is a richly amused sound, but it’s also teeming with sickness, madness an infection waiting—wanting—to take hold if Tom’s not careful about it. And maybe even if he _is_ careful.

Pope is looking at him with a pleased, smug grin on his face as his shoulders shake with held back amusement of his own.

“We are not doing that,” Tom says when he can speak again. He wipes his watering eyes and laughs again, softer now. He puts his hand over Pope’s on his thigh and leaves it there. “Really, we’re not.”

“I dunno,” Pope says, leaning back again, looking like he’s considering it. “It might be fun as long as neither of us sings Van Halen.”

“Van Halen?” Tom asks.

“They had a song called ‘Hot for Teacher’. Where the hell have you been?” Pope asks.

“Somewhere they don’t play Van Halen,” Tom says.

“Or Van Hagar, as the case may be,” Pope says. “You didn’t miss much. I hated that band. No, scratch that, I still hate that band.”

“Why, is it too soft for you?”

“Something like that,” Pope says. “Too stupid is more like it though.” He takes his hand off Tom’s thigh and holds up a finger. “Now for dessert.”

“You made _dessert_?” Tom asks.

“Nah, it’s just blueberries,” Pope says.

“Where’d you get blueberries?” Tom asks.

Pope gives him a flat look, one eyebrow at half-mast. “Off the bushes growing in the backyard.”

“Oh,” Tom says.

“What I don’t get is how more people haven’t starved to death,” Pope says as he picks up their dinner plates. “Seems like damn near every living soul still thinks food comes from boxes and apples just magically appear in the produce section. It’s a fucking buffet out there and no one seems to realize it.”

“People… People were… spoiled,” Tom says. “And yes, I include myself in that. They’re getting better though.”

“Slowly but surely,” Pope agrees as he walks back to the kitchen. “ _Very_ slowly.”

Tom thinks about the plums, about how people are going out and gathering food now. It’s getting better, but at first it was bedlam and even now with livestock wandering around free for the taking people still fret and worry about where they’re going to get meat from. There are people that come into the settlement half-starved even though fruit trees are producing this time of year and they’ve probably seen a thousand chickens between wherever they came from and Charleston. And while people are picking fruit now, Tom has yet to hear someone even _mention_ shooting a cow or wringing a chicken’s neck. The thought actually makes him feel a little uneasy. It’s a hell of a lot different when your dinner is actually _looking_ at you. He decides he needs to get over this little kink in his survival instinct once and for all.

“I want you to teach me how to hunt,” Tom says when Pope comes back.

He places a bowl of blueberries on the table and Tom looks them over. They’re huge, not the sad little berries he used to buy at the market and a deep velvety blue that begs to be touched. He takes up a small handful and begins eating them one by one while Pope chews a huge mouthful with his eyes closed in what Tom can only call bliss.

“Okay,” Pope says after he’s swallowed. “I’ll teach you. Got a feeling you won’t like it though.”

“Maybe not, but it’s time I learned,” Tom says. “I’ll get over it.”

“Yep,” Pope says as he takes up another handful of berries.

“Who taught you how to hunt?” Tom asks.

“No one,” Pope says. “It’s just my killer instinct.”

“Bullshit,” Tom says mildly.

“My mom,” Pope says after a minute.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. She was from Alabama, grew up hunting and fishing. She used to take me out every season to do the same,” Pope says.

“I thought you had an odd accent,” Tom says.

“It’s not that odd,” Pope says. “I picked up some of her accent, but not a lot.”

“What about your brother?” Tom asks.

Pope shrugs and shakes his head at the same time. “ _Half_ -brother, actually. He was from my old man’s second marriage. He never did seem to hate him as much as he did me though.” He says it almost wonderingly, gaze faraway and Tom frowns.

“He had visitation then, I take it,” Tom says.

“Every. Other. Weekend.” Pope spits out each word like it’s a splinter.

“Peachy,” Tom says.

“Good times were had by all,” Pope says. “Parcheesi in the great room, canasta on the veranda.”

“Marco Polo in the Olympic-size pool,” Tom says.

“With fountains,” Pope adds as he begins tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. “Can’t forget the fountains.”

“No, can’t forget those.” Tom leans over and kisses Pope’s jaw, feels the tense muscle under his lips. “I didn’t mean to poke a sore spot.”

“You didn’t.” Pope blinks and shakes his head, eyes clearing as he focuses on Tom’s face. “We survived our childhoods, right? You even learned to make fire. That’s a valuable life skill there.”

“So’s knowing how to hunt,” Tom says.

“Trade me then: teach me to make fire, I’ll teach you how to hunt,” Pope says.

 _And this is how we learned to be human,_ Tom thinks with a faint smile.

“Ah-ah,” Tom says. “You already agreed to teach me how to hunt.”

“Shit, I did, didn’t I?” Pope says. “Still, teach me.”

“I will,” Tom says.

He looks around the dining room, imagines fancy dinners and the laughter of rich people who never knew a hard day in their lives. There’s still a poor kid living inside of Tom somewhere, a kid that is kicked back and grinning with satisfaction now, though he’s also a bit uneasy. Even in this shit-heap of a life they’ve all landed in, there’s a small part of Tom that looks at the glittering crystal and is afraid to touch it because he might break it. There’s another part of him that thinks, _It’s about time I got my taste of the good life._

Tom figures that’s why Pope has taken to this house the way he has. He might not have ever been the kind for settling down and making a house into a _home_ , but he was that poor kid wondering what it was like behind all of the high garden walls; the places he wasn’t allowed to go.

Still thinking about it, Tom stretches his arm out and runs the tips of his fingers along the rim of the crystal bowl the nearest candle-monster sits in. And God, he realizes, it feels _so good_. He flicks the edge with his finger before leaning back again, listens to the high, chiming ring of it.

“I love that sound,” Pope says. He leans forward and flicks the rim of the bowl next and sighs with pleasure when it rings.

“It’s a great sound,” Tom agrees.

“But we have other shit to do,” Pope says as he pushes his chair back. He takes a mini flashlight from his pocket, flicks it on then blows out the candle-monsters. “We’ve got to clean up the kitchen for starters. Goddamn cockroaches are bad enough as it is; leaving food around only encourages them.”

Tom wrinkles his nose at the smell of burnt candle wax and the mention of cockroaches. He has not and never will like the damn things and now he can’t seem to escape them.

“Any luck finding roach spray on your excursions?” he asks as he gets up.

“No and believe me, I look,” Pope says. “I hate those motherfuckers.”

“Same here,” Tom says. “They used to scare the hell out of me when I was a kid and they weren’t half as big as the ones down here.”

“These things…” Pope shudders and makes a _yuck_ sound in the back of his throat. “They’re the size of mice.”

“Close to it,” Tom says.

Pope laughs and cuts his eyes to the side to look at Tom. “They freaked me out when I was a kid, too. Still kinda do.”

“You mean to tell me that John Pope is afraid of _roaches_?”

“Well, Tom Mason is afraid of snakes.”

“Some snakes are poisonous, cockroaches are just… gross.”

“Everybody’s afraid of something,” Pope says.

“But cockroaches?” Tom asks.

“Shut up, man,” Pope says. “At least I’m not one of those weirdos that’s afraid of balloons or whatever.”

Tom watches as he first jumps and then stomps on a roach as it scurries across the floor. He doesn’t so much squash it as he _obliterates_ it—definitely overkill. Tom hides his smirk at the shudder that runs through Pope.

“So, dishes,” Tom asks. “What’s the plan?”

“Boil water, scald plates and utensils; cool off the boiling water with more water then wash,” Pope says as he turns on the LED lanterns. “I’ve got a big ass soup pot that’s perfect for that.”

“Nice,” Tom says as he runs after another roach.

“Did you get it?” Pope asks.

Tom picks his foot up and looks. “Yep,” he says.

“Awesome,” Pope says as he starts pouring water into the soup pot.

The process of washing dishes is much slower and messier than it once was, but they still get it done quicker working together than they would working alone. To pass the time waiting for the dish water to boil, they drink beer and scout for cockroaches in need of flattening. Tom periodically sweeps their corpses up and disposes of them in the trash. Pope dries the dishes while Tom puts away the leftovers and stares into the glowing light of the open refrigerator for too long, half hypnotized and fascinated by the tiny light that once seemed so out of reach.

He once asked Pope how he’d managed to survive as long as he did and this is why—because he doesn’t know how to lay down and die. He was never afraid to break into a house to see if the stovetop ran on gas and if so, if the thing still worked. He might not know how to build a fire, but he knows how to make do and in some ways, he’s better at it than even Tom. It’s not as hard to admit that to himself now as it once would have been.

Tom has just opened a fresh beer when Pope finishes putting away the dishes and comes toward him. He has a way to his walk—a predatory stride that Tom’s always noticed and used to think was part bluster, put on for show, but now he knows better. He puts his beer aside just as Pope reaches him and runs his hands, still damp from the dishes, under his shirt and over his belly. It’s a warm, liquid sensation that flares in Tom’s gut at the feel of Pope’s callous-roughened fingertips stroking over the sensitive, soft skin of his belly.

“Hey,” Tom says as he moves closer, lets Pope feel the way he shivers at his touch.

“Hey, yourself,” Pope says as his hands meet at the small of Tom’s back and he tugs him closer, never taking his eyes off Tom’s face.

Thunder booms outside, rattling the dishes in the cabinets and Tom is smiling when he kisses Pope. Everything is liquid, the rain washing away the gloom with its sound and fury. Pope’s hands are hot against Tom’s skin as he opens his mouth to the kiss and moans.

They are turned to ghosts here in the cold firelight of the two lanterns spaced so far apart they create a valley of shadows between the reach of their glow. They touch the sides of Tom’s and Pope’s faces with light like grace and leave the rest of their bodies in darkness. But Tom doesn’t need to see; he knows the body against his, he’s learned all of the scars and every tattoo; each line and ridge of muscle. He had an argument with himself that went on for days after the first time and Tom still doesn’t know if he won or lost that fight, but he’s glad either way because he wouldn’t be here otherwise. He wouldn’t have given this a chance.

Tom licks and sucks at the tendons in Pope’s neck, feels his knees slowly giving way to lead him to the floor. He didn’t know he was going to do this until that; his body decided for him. Pope’s hand on his shoulder—a question—makes Tom shake his head.

“Let me,” Tom says as he flicks the button on Pope’s jeans open.

“Only if you want to,” Pope says.

“I want to,” Tom says as he sinks down to the cool stone floor. It’s not a comfortable place to kneel, but it’s all right because Pope’s thighs tremble slightly under his palms when he smoothes his hands over them before unzipping his jeans.

Pope strokes his hair and it’s all the encouragement Tom needs to lean forward. He takes Pope slowly into his mouth while the floor and his bones make a sandwich of bruises out of his skin trapped between them. The soft rush of breath from Pope pleases Tom as he tastes him. He’s heavy on Tom’s tongue, salty skin and starchy precome and Tom realizes there is a learning curve to this he honestly wouldn’t have expected. He’s amazed at the amount of saliva he produces as he works his way back up Pope’s length, leaving his skin slick and wet. Pope groans out a soft curse then sucks in a harsh breath.

“Watch the teeth,” he says.

“Sorry,” Tom mumbles. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t take a chunk out or anything.”

Tom is laughing when he carefully licks the head of Pope’s cock, flicks his tongue around the crown. He’s trying to remember what he likes so he can try that and he’s also trying to pay attention; figure out what _Pope_ likes. There is an element of multitasking to this as well.

He figures it out after a few minutes—slow, firm pressure that is constant. Tom likes more variation, enjoys more licking, but Pope likes it this way. His fingers are tangled in Tom’s hair, close to pulling and then he does pull and Tom knows he’s got it just right. The change in Pope’s breathing is a revelation, it tells Tom all he needs to know. It’s gone from slow, steady—careful, even—to quick and ragged. There is sweat on Pope’s belly when Tom strokes his fingers over it, wanting to touch as much of him as he can.

“Shit,” Pope says. “You need to stop or I’m gonna—”

Tom makes a low sound of negation in the back of his throat. He doesn’t do things by half; he wants to know what it _all_ is like and so he doesn’t stop, doesn’t heed the warning.

The rush of it is intense when Pope tightens his fingers even more in his hair and groans low, almost like a growl as he comes in Tom’s mouth. It’s hot and thick and salty and a surprise that makes Tom choke a bit before he swallows. It doesn’t taste _bad_ —and that’s something he’s always wondered about, but never known how to ask—but it’s definitely _different_.

Tom sucks him gently through the aftershocks then rocks back on his heels as he works his aching jaw to look up at Pope. Pope coughs out a laugh and pushes his hair out of his face before he leans down to tug Tom up from the floor. His knees protest the change of position, but it’s a relief as well. It was not an ideal place to decide it was time to learn what it’s like to give head. He’s turned on though, Jesus is he ever because _he did that_ , he felt Pope unravel under his hands and tongue and now he’s kissing the taste of himself off Tom’s lips. It’s wonderfully _filthy_ and Tom moans, gripping Pope’s sides with something akin to desperation.

“Let me take care of you,” Pope says as he tugs down Tom’s zipper.

The jeans Pope loaned him are so loose on him that they puddle around his ankles. Pope’s fingers curl around his cock and he begins to stroke him and Tom closes his eyes, moans and clenches his fingers against Pope’s shoulder to try and anchor himself.

It only takes a few quick strokes of his clever fingers, the contrast of the smooth, cool metal of his rings and his warm, rough skin making Tom’s skin prickle with goosebumps. He comes with a muffled moan, teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip as he looks at Pope through slitted eyes. He moans again, tired desire fluttering inside of him, trying to wake up again when Pope sucks his fingers clean.

“You are really filthy,” Tom says with a faint smile.

“I do what I can,” Pope says. Then he licks his lips and Tom laughs as he wraps his arms around Pope and leans on him.

After a few minutes they move apart and right their clothing then lean against the island counter. Pope smokes and drinks a beer, Tom finishes his beer from earlier, now hot and gross, then gets another. The rain is still falling and Tom’s reconsidering his earlier assessment—maybe this is a tropical storm after all.

“Wait here,” Pope says a minute later.

“Where are you going?” Tom asks.

“Just wait,” Pope says. Then he’s gone, disappearing with his mini flashlight back into the house.

Tom does as he asks and kills a few more cockroaches in the meantime.

When Pope comes back, he’s got towels and soap and washrags.

“There’s no use letting this weather go to waste,” Pope says. “It sure as hell beats a bucket of water and determination.”

“Unless we get struck by lightning,” Tom says.

Pope snorts. “Come on, Mason, let’s go shower.”

Tom’s not too sure because there is lightning, but the idea is also hard to resist. When Pope holds his hand out to him, Tom wraps his fingers around his and lets himself be led into the backyard.

They strip down on the back porch then step into the downpour. Tom gasps at the surprising coldness of the rain on his warm skin, but tips his head back to look at the lightning torn sky. It’s like it’s being cracked and put back together a hundred times with each flash of lightning. Then Pope is behind him, soapy hands running over his flanks, the smell of Irish Spring soap heavy in the air and Tom stops worrying about it.

In this secret place of theirs, a million miles and a lifetime away from the settlement a mere few streets over, they wash each other and slip in the wet grass. Tom laughs and catches Pope’s arm, pulls him against his body and holds tight to him as the last of the soap is sluiced from their skin.

He thinks that it’s dangerous and terrifying that he never wants to lose this feeling or this man. He thinks that in a field out there, the graves of his sons have become muddy, the earth taking in the water to feed the flowers and grass that will cover them over one day. Tom thinks it’s okay that the tang of salt and tears is in the back of his throat because Pope’s holding onto him. It’s okay that Tom feels breakable and like he’s burning alive on the inside and sometimes there seem to be a million voices whispering in the back of his mind at once. Because right now those voices are quiet and he knows the reason why.

When Pope kisses him in the pouring rain, water sweet and clean in their mouths, Tom thinks that this feels a lot like real life.


	6. August and Everything

_You can keep yourself inside,_   
_But you know you cannot lie_   
_When the devil’s your only friend_

— Beck   
“Steal My Body Home”

Pope’s crew takes well to Tom; they _take him in_ , enfolding him in their gruff loyalty and inviting him to join their card games on the nights he comes to hang out at the bar. If he hadn’t already cottoned on to the fact his weight loss is extreme then he would have when the crew slaps him with the nickname Mr. Bones. Tom is not amused, but the nickname sticks and he gets used to it, even starts to like it in a way. He’s never had a nickname before other than Professor, which Pope keeps all for himself. Tom likes that, too, that no one else has picked up the habit of calling him that.

Tom’s still on grief leave (or whatever it’s called, be damned if he can remember) but Pope isn’t and never has been. He goes on recon missions and fights in skirmishes and battles. He comes home to Tom battered and bruised with torn clothes and blood on his face. Tom helps straighten him out on such occasions since Pope refuses to go to the infirmary unless he’s in danger of dying or losing a limb or an eye. Tom learns the art of stitching a cut, learns how to still his hands even though they want to shake.

He slips into something of a routine living with Pope. They keep working on the house, concentrating a lot of time on building a library. Pope’s been talking about painting some of the rooms that were damaged, including the wall along the staircase. Tom figures that will be an exercise in frustration—even finding enough paint in the same color will be a pain in the ass. Tom does not doubt Pope’s scavenging abilities, but paint is not going to be easy; he’s got a feeling. The roof is the biggest concern and they spend a lot of time standing in the upstairs hallway of the north wing, looking up at the tarp-covered hole and making manly sounds of concerned thoughtfulness. Needless to say, they haven’t made much progress.

Tom catches himself doing that _thing_ again—the thing where he avoids spending much time with Ben; the thing where he hides himself away from his son. It occurs to him one day while he’s shelving books in the library, running his fingers over them with reverence and promising himself that he’ll never walk away from a pile of books again. When the thought about Ben slithers through his mind Tom goes still and closes his eyes.

He never wanted to be that guy—a common thought by now—and he’s turning into him yet again. He thinks of all the time he lost with Hal, it wasn’t a lot, maybe, but it was more than he ended up having. Tom will never get the chance to make it up to Hal either, but it’s not too late to spend time with Ben. He knows that Ben has come looking for him, they fill him in when he shows up at the bar to watch Pope work and to have drinks. They always put Ben off and Tom feels like even more of shit about that.

Right alongside that “avoid and hide” feeling is the other one; the one where Tom finds himself preoccupied with thoughts (schemes, plots, plans) to keep Ben safer than safe. It’s a duality he’s become familiar with because he’s split into opposing factions of himself on most things.

Then there’s Pope and Tom is preoccupied with something else there—he could be happy with Pope if he ever gets over the mess his mind has become. It never stops being surprising—that they ever went as far as they have straight on to now where _happiness_ twiddles its thumbs, waiting for Tom to pull himself back together enough he can let it in and learn to enjoy—to trust—the feeling again. It is there for Tom to see plain as anything when he’s having a good day, a day where he doesn’t feel like he might go running into the night, screaming and waving his hands.

Tom rides a rollercoaster of emotions from one day to the next. Sometimes he’s okay, almost like nothing terrible has happened to him; other days he stares at the wall and doesn’t realize he’s crying until Pope comes looking for him. He’s never in his life felt so fragile, like he could be folded up into origami; crack of bone, rupture of flesh until he becomes a carefully shaped flower made of meat. They could call it “The Bleeding Lotus”.

The sound of his hiccup-silly giggles yanks Tom back to awareness and he swallows the sounds down, pushes them deep and far away from himself. He can fix this awful thing he’s doing to Ben and he’s going to start right now, he decides. Tomorrow is Tom’s first time out in the field since losing Hal and he _needs_ to find Ben, _needs_ to talk to him and tell him that he loves him and that he’s okay—and that he will _be_ okay tomorrow, too. The mission, a three man scouting team, will take a few days and Tom wants Ben to know he didn’t leave without so much as a thought for him.

Looking around the library, Tom also decides he needs to bring him something and Ben still loves books. He absently sips from the bottle in his hand—it’s become a fixture, one he acknowledges, but won’t let himself think too much about—as he browses the shelves and stacks of books on the floor and tables. Some of the volumes are damaged by water or fire or a combination. Tom’s certain that they will eventually find books with bloodstains on their pages. He wants to give Ben a book that still looks _good_ and so, it’s a bit more work.

He makes an _ah_ sound when he finds one that is not only in excellent condition—it looks practically brand new—but is also one he thinks Ben will like. Tom carefully extracts a hardback copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ from a stack on the table beside a sofa of claret suede.

Book in hand, Tom takes one last long swig from the bottle then sets it aside before he goes to brush his teeth then go find Ben.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It takes Tom over an hour to locate Ben and when he does, Ben is sitting on a stalled out car, eating M&Ms. Tom figures that a kid will find sugar no matter what, even during an alien Armageddon.

Ben spies Tom before he can say anything and grins from ear to ear as he slides off the hood of the car.

“Dad!” he says as he comes toward him, arms already outstretched.

Tom smiles so hard it almost hurts his face and his heart _does_ hurt as he puts his arms around Ben and hugs him. He pulls back after a minute to show Ben the book he has yet to notice.

“I brought you something,” Tom says and hopes like hell he picked the right one.

“Cool!” Ben says, practically snatching the book out of Tom’s hand he’s so happy to have one again. “I never got to read this one.”

“Mind if we sit?” Tom asks, gesturing at the car. “I’m old and I get tired easy.”

Ben rolls his eyes and goes back to the car.

“Better, old man?” Ben asks after Tom has situated himself.

“Much,” Tom says. He looks over at Ben. “How’ve you been?”

“Okay,” Ben says. He’s running his fingers over the cover of the book, tracing the raised letters of the title like he’s reading Braille and Tom smiles. Ben loves books as much as he does. He looks at Tom a second later. “I should ask you that though. So… How are you?”

“I’m… okay,” Tom says. “Okay enough.” He’s started thinking of things like this, these little half-truths as _truish_.

Tom can still taste the smoke and whiskey flavor of Pope’s kiss before he left. He curls his fingers into a loose fist and feels Pope’s hair threading through them. There is the clench-flutter in his belly when Tom thinks about how much he loves Pope. Tom can smell the library, the books and dust; all of that knowledge. There’s the mint from the garden, the honeysuckle and jasmine and roses. Always the roses.

He has so many things he wants to tell Ben—things he _needs_ to, _has_ to tell Ben that he can’t think of where to start. So, yet again, he says nothing and curses himself for a coward. He’s living two lives now and that’s more of the duality, more of the opposing factions of himself. Tom wants to merge these halves together and make a whole, but he can’t figure out how, not without it going off in his face, leaving him covered in soot and full of shrapnel, his eyebrows singed off.

The giggles come bubbling up Tom’s throat again and he bites them back by sinking his teeth into the inside of his cheek so hard he winces… and just keeps biting down. It feels better that way.

“I’ve come to see you a couple of times,” Ben says. “You’re never there.”

He offers Tom the bag of M&Ms, watchful and tense—waiting to see if he’ll take one. Tom doesn’t want any candy, but he takes the bag anyway and carefully shakes out six before passing it back. He’s eating more than he was, but he’s still not overdoing it, much to Pope’s annoyance and his own growing frustration with the problem.

Tom puts an M&M in his mouth—a blue one—and chews it slowly, the candy so sweet it makes him fight back a grimace as the sugar hits his taste buds.

“I was probably out for a walk,” Tom says.

It’s a lie, but it’s a believable lie. If Tom was an extra in a movie, he’d be credited as “Guy that Walks Around” he’s become so known for it.

The giggles, ever-present and waiting, try to rise up Tom’s throat again. Bite. Them. Down. He tastes sweet chocolate and the salt of blood. The giggles retreat. _That’s better._

“Where do you _go_?” Ben asks.

That’s the ten million dollar question. Maggie asked first, Weaver got around to it not long after and now it’s Ben’s turn.

“Nowhere,” Tom says. He waves his hand around, vaguely indicating everything and nothing at all. “Just… around. I need to clear my head is all.”

“You can talk to me, Dad,” Ben says.

_No, I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair. It’d be worse parenting than I’m already doing._

“I know,” Tom says. “But I think I need to sort some of this stuff out on my own.”

Ben sighs and shakes his head, watches Tom eat his second M&M. He hopes there isn’t blood on his teeth; he really did bite the piss out of himself.

“I’ve been visiting Maggie,” Ben says. He says it sheepishly; he doesn’t know _why_ he should be careful on this topic, but he’s read enough of Tom’s cues to know it’s true. “She’s really depressed, Dad. Maybe you should go talk to her.”

“No.” Tom growls it out between his clenched teeth. “No, Ben.”

“But _why_?” Ben is frustrated now, brows drawn down into a V, a scowl on his face. Tom notices he has a piece of orange candy shell caught in the corner of his mouth. “Why are you so… so _mad_ at her? What did she _do_?”

 _She lived while Hal died and she was_ right there. _She should have been the one, not your brother. Don’t you_ get _that?_

“I don’t want to discuss this, Ben.” Tom sits up and looks down at the bumper between his feet. He cuts his eyes to the side, sees that one of Ben’s boot laces is untied.

“You need to though because this is weird,” Ben says. “I don’t get it and she doesn’t get it either. _No one_ gets it. Maggie cries all the time and can’t go back out yet because Weaver benched her, he says she’s still too messed up. She tried to join up with Pope’s crew again, you know, but he wouldn’t let her. She said he told her there was no way in hell she was riding with his crew.”

Tom looks over at Ben then, eyebrows raised. Pope didn’t say anything to him about Maggie trying get back in with the Berserkers. Has he said something about Maggie to Pope? Tom tries to think and realizes maybe he has during one of his bouts of angry upset; the ones where he rages and hollers and usually ends up an embarrassing puddle on the floor that reeks of whiskey and saline.

“I have no sway over what Pope does,” Tom says.

“That isn’t an answer!” Ben slaps his hand down on the hood of the car and leaves a dent in the faded blue metal. Tom stares at it for a moment before he tears his eyes away. “You used to like her and now you don’t and I don’t understand. It’s not her _fault_.”

“If you want to be her friend then that’s fine, Ben, I don’t care.” Tom rubs his face again and lets out a careful breath. “I don’t know what else you want me to say here.”

Tom is trying to stay calm, but Ben is digging his fingers into all of his sore spots and it’s a losing battle. He didn’t come out here to _fight_ with the boy though and he’s trying-trying-trying not to. Ben can tell him it’s not Maggie’s fault Hal died until Kingdom Come and he still won’t listen. Oh, he _believes_ it, sure enough—he’s _known_ it from the outset—but knowing and caring are two different things. There is no logic here, only pure, irrational human emotion and it gets on _everything_. Tom needs someone to blame and this time the Espheni aren’t enough; he needs someone else to point the finger at as well because this is big— _huge_ —and it tore another hole right through the center of him.

“The truth, tell me the _truth_ ,” Ben says. “You don’t say a fucking thing anymore about _anything_ and I’m sick and damned tired of it!” He puts his head in his hands and hisses, “ _Fuck_.”

Tom whips his head around to stare at Ben, shocked at his language, at how easily—how casually—the F-bombs fell out of his mouth to explode between them. Did he really think Ben would never learn to curse? Has he done it before and Tom hasn’t noticed? He doesn’t know, but it’s like a kick in the face because: _Where has he been?_

He will not scold Ben for this though; a few dirty words in the midst of the hell they live in are not a scold-worthy offense. If Ben wants to say “fuck” every other word, he will not care—Ben has earned the right to fling profanity around like loose change.

“Watch your goddamn mouth,” Tom says mildly and bites his lip against a grin when Ben stares at him with huge eyes, a stunned look on his face.

Then he opens his mouth to protest, to likely offer some knee-jerk smartass retort. Tom sees when it _really, truly_ clicks through the initial surprise; when it registers that Tom’s rebuke was not exactly a lily-white one. Ben snorts at first, tries to hold onto his glare, but he loses in the end and laughs.

Tom lets out a sigh of relief because wow, that was a close one. It’ll happen again, he has no doubt, but he’s derailed it for right now. Tom eats another M&M and smiles as he lets it melt in his mouth.

“I heard you’re going out tomorrow,” Ben says while Tom is pondering another M&M—green or yellow?.

“Yep,” Tom says. He chooses the green M&M and puts it in his mouth. “Been a while.”

“Are you… Do you think you’ll be okay?”

“I think so,” Tom says. “It’s a scouting mission is all, gathering intel; nothing I can’t handle.”

“Are you ever going to come back to the fighters?” Ben asks.

“No, son, I don’t think I am,” Tom says. “That okay with you?”

Ben shrugs and grins. “I still say you should do what you need to do. I think Weaver is worried about you though. A lot of people are.”

“Well, they don’t need to be,” Tom says. “I’ve got this.”

“Do you, Dad?” Ben asks, raking his eyes over Tom, taking in his bones that are still jutting painfully sharp through the fabric of his shirt. “Because…”

Tom takes his hand in his and gives it a quick squeeze.

“I know I might not look like it yet, but I’m getting better,” Tom says. “It’s going to take some time before it really shows because I let myself get pretty bad off before. It’s happening though.”

“All right,” Ben says after a minute. He squeezes Tom’s hand back. “All right, I believe you.”

“How about we go for a walk?” Tom asks.

“Yeah, let’s go take in the scenery,” Ben says with a quirk of his lips.

“There are many amazing things to see in historical Charleston, South Carolina,” Tom says in his best tour guide voice as he slides off the hood and waits for Ben to stand.

“Lead the way then,” Ben says. “I’m not paying you to stand around.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom says, snapping Ben a salute that makes him laugh.

They walk until near sundown when Ben finally sighs and says he needs to meet up with Deni and talk about some things to do with the rebels. Tom nods and hugs Ben, holding him as tight as he can, so tight Ben makes exaggerated choking noises that make Tom laugh.

“Point taken,” he says as he lets him go. He glances down at the cracked ground between their feet, sees that Ben’s bootlace is still dangling. “One more thing though.”

Before Ben can say anything, Tom crouches down and ties his shoe for him. Ben’s always been absentminded, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to pay much attention to the state of his wardrobe. Back when the world made sense, Ben’s number one cause of injury was tripping over his own shoelaces.

“Dad!” Ben squawks with the perfect outrage only a teenager can muster. “Jeeeesussss! I cannot believe you just did that. It’s not like I’m _three_ , you know. You could’ve _said something_ and I would’ve done it myself.”

Tom only smiles at him and pats his cheek.

“You’ll never be too old for me to take care of you,” he says.

Ben rolls his eyes so hard that it looks like it hurts, but he’s smiling, too.

“All right, all right, old man,” Ben says, playfully shoving Tom’s shoulder. He turns around to head back, but stops and looks over his shoulder at Tom. “See you later?”

“Absolutely,” Tom says. “Love you, Benny.”

“Love you, too, Tommy.” Ben smirks at him and Tom laughs. Then Ben jogs off into the direction of the setting sun, turning into a burning silhouette that Tom watches until he disappears around a corner.

Tom walks back to the mansion feeling both better and worse than he did before he left. It was great hanging out with Ben and reconnecting, but there are so many _truish_ things in the way now that Tom feels like he’s digging himself a hole he might not be able to climb out of. If only he could think of the right way to say it. He wonders if he should try writing it down first, get the words right and then tell Ben. It would undoubtedly sound rehearsed, but damnit, at least it would get _done_.

Pope is in the backyard plucking a chicken when Tom steps through the garden wall. There’s a surprising amount of blood on the block of wood Pope has set up to chop their heads off. Tom’s stomach flips a little bit at the sight and he tells himself to get over it.

“How’d it go?” Pope asks as he yanks a wad of russet colored feathers out. They are gathered in a soggy drift around his feet, the wash-pot of water he used to scald the bird still steaming. He’s not wearing a shirt and is slick with sweat… and covered in more feathers.

Tom laughs as he walks over to pluck some off Pope’s shoulders.

“It went okay,” Tom says.

“I take you didn’t tell him then,” Pope says.

Tom sighs and picks more feathers out of Pope’s hair. “No, I didn’t. I don’t know how.”

“I don’t see what’s so damn difficult about it.” Pope yanks out more feathers and flings them aside. “All you gotta do is say, ‘Hey, Ben, I’m into dick these days. Just thought you should know.’ See? Not difficult.”

Tom snorts and shakes his head. “How about _no_ , Pope? That is not how you broach such a topic with kids.”

It’s not the “hey, I’m bisexual” part he’s worried about Ben having a bad reaction to anyway. That will be a surprise, but Tom and Rebecca didn’t raise their kids to be narrow-minded idiots and they’re not (rather, they _weren’t_ , in some cases). If it was simply a matter of Tom being bisexual and involved with another man, Ben would accept it. Like with Weaver, it’s the “I’m with Pope” factor that’s going to cause problems.

Pope jerks out another wad of feathers and throws them in Tom’s face. He splutters and Pope snickers before he lays the chicken aside to lean forward and rest his elbows on his knees. He turns to look at Tom while he spits feathers. His expression is mildly annoyed, but not _angry_. Yet.

“That’s not the part that worries you anyway,” Pope says.

Tom sits down on the ground and shakes his head.

“No,” he says.

“Then it’s me,” Pope says.

“Yep,” Tom says.

“I never was the ‘take him home to meet the family’ type,” Pope says.

“Because you’re kind of a fucker sometimes,” Tom says. “You know it, I know it; _everybody_ knows it.”

“What can I say? I’m charming,” Pope says. He punctuates it with a scoffing sound in the back of his throat.

“You’ve said some really awful stuff to Ben, stuff that _I_ wanted to hate you for and he might very well hate you for,” Tom says. “It’s going to upset him.”

“I said I wouldn’t do it anymore,” Pope says.

“I know and I believe you, I do,” Tom says. “But it doesn’t erase the past either.”

“I don’t know what the hell you want me to do,” Pope says. Now he’s getting angry and Tom can’t blame him for it this time.

“I don’t either, all right? I have no idea how to tell Ben that you’re not that bad, that you’re actually… actually pretty damn good, especially for me,” Tom says. “I didn’t ever totally believe it myself… before, you know. I do now and I want him to know _you_ because…”

Tom trails off and feels his shoulders slump.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says.

Pope grumbles under his breath as he scrubs at his face with dirty hands.

“I’ll live,” he says.

“I’ll think of something,” Tom says.

“You do that.” Pope doesn’t sound like he believes him and that hurts like hell, makes Tom feel like an utter and complete shit.

Pope picks up the chicken to start ripping its feathers out again with more vigor than before. He’s taking his anger out on dead fowl, Tom figures and yet again, he feels like shit.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Tom asks.

“There are some potatoes in the kitchen that need scrubbing and cutting up into wedges,” Pope says without looking at Tom. “Go do that.”

In other words: _Get out of my sight._ Tom’s been married twice and he knows when he’s in trouble, so he obediently nods and stands up.

“All right,” he says.

He runs his hand over the back of Pope’s hair and tries not to flinch when he shakes him off. Tom thinks he must feel like Tom is ashamed of him, that he’s keeping him like a dirty little secret. He knows Pope gives less than a damn about what Weaver or anyone else in the settlement might have to say. Yet, when it comes to Ben—the other important person in Tom’s life—he probably feels like Tom’s treating this like the separation of Church and State. He also knows Pope never gave it much thought until Tom brought it up and now this is all on him.

 _I’m sorry_ , Tom mouths to the back of Pope’s bowed head then he turns to go inside as another hail of feathers flies up around Pope; morbid confetti for a crappy party.

Dinner is a quiet affair, but Tom makes himself eat all of his rosemary and garlic roasted potatoes. He also manages to eat a whole thigh and a couple of bites of breast before he’s had enough. Even if he is getting the silent treatment, Pope still checks his plate and makes a satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

“I’m going to the bar for a little while,” Pope says when they are done with the dishes. “You gonna be okay on your own?”

“I am an adult,” Tom says.

“But you’re a screwy adult these days,” Pope says.

 _Ouch_.

“I’m not going to eat a bullet or open up my wrists in your absence,” Tom says. “Rest easy.”

_Check and mate._

“The fuck?” Pope says as he turns to look at Tom for the first time in hours. “What the hell was that about? I didn’t say—shit. Have you _thought_ about it?”

“A time or two,” Tom admits. His checkmate has just been usurped by honesty. Damn it all. He hastens to add, “But I won’t do it. I’m not suicidal… I just… I hit a place there for a while after… after Matt…” _Deep breath. Bite down. There._ Christ, the inside of his cheek is sore though. “There was a little while there when I didn’t know what the hell to do. That’s all.”

“So you thought _ending_ yourself was the best solution?” Pope asks.

“It occurred to me, yeah,” Tom says. “But then I thought of Ben and… and… and…” Is it so bad now that he can’t even say the _names_ of his lost boys? “ _Hal_ and how they needed me and then… Well. Then there was you. You helped.”

In some ways, Pope has _saved_ him, but that’s one of those things Tom knows not to say. Too much feeling makes Pope uncomfortable and that’s not his aim here.

“Fuck, Mason,” Pope says. “I had no idea.”

“I didn’t exactly walk around advertising it,” Tom says.

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing about suicide,” Pope says. “If you tell people then they might try to stop you. That’s the ‘cry for help’ nutcases; I’m guessing you weren’t looking for help.”

“No, I was mostly preoccupied with finding a quiet, private place to do it before I jerked back to reality.”

“I feel ya on that one,” Pope says.

“You do?” Tom asks.

Pope shrugs.

“I was an angsty teenager,” he says. “It was a long time ago.” He turns, leaning his hip against the counter, to look at Tom again. “But you remember when I told you that you’re allowed to grieve?”

“Yeah.” Tom nods.

Pope takes his face in his hands, stroking his thumbs along the razored arches of Tom’s cheek bones. “Well, you’re not allowed to let it _kill_ you.”

Tom turns his cheek into Pope’s hand and kisses his palm, brings his hands up to circle Pope’s wrists. He feels the thump-thump of Pope’s pulse against the pads of his fingers that have gotten so thin they’re like the delicate spines of birds.

“I’m right here, I swear,” Tom says.

“Good,” Pope says.

Tom smiles faintly and leans in to kiss him, wondering if he’s been forgiven enough to be allowed to do so. Pope opens his mouth under the press of Tom’s lips and he knows he has been. He won’t pretend everything is all right, but it’s better for now.

Pope frowns a bit when they pull apart and licks his lips.

“Your mouth tastes like blood,” he says. “Did you bite yourself?”

“A little bit,” Tom says.

“That’s more than a little bit,” Pope says. “Like that bruise on your shoulder was more than an accident. Don’t turn into one of those emo cutter kids on me, man.”

Tom can’t help but laugh as he shakes his head.

“I won’t,” he says. “I only do it sometimes.”

“That’s what a lot of junkies say, too,” Pope says. “I’m given to understand that kind of thing is as addictive as a drug, too.”

“I’m not…”

“I believe you,” Pope says. “It’s still a bad habit to get into. I dated a chick way back when that had got into that shit so bad she was _a scar_. That’s beyond the emo ‘please pay attention to my paaaaiiiin’ bullshit; that’s actually a problem.”

“Damn,” Tom says.

“Exactly,” Pope says.

“I won’t do that,” Tom says.

“All right,” Pope says. He finishes the beer on the counter by his elbow then pushes away from it. “I need to get going if you’re seriously going to be okay.”

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” Tom says. “I’m going to read.”

Pope nods and leans in to give Tom a quick kiss that ends with a smack on his ass. His eyes fly wide and he stares at Pope as he snickers and walks away.

“You are a scholar and a gentleman,” Tom calls after him, aghast and amused in turns.

“Always,” Pope says, his voice drifting back through the big house.

Tom goes to the library when he knows Pope is gone and picks up the bottle of whiskey he set aside earlier and the book he left on the sofa. Then he takes a seat and by lantern light begins to read _A Fine & Private Place_ by Peter S. Beagle. Time slips by unnoticed and Tom doesn’t look up again until Pope comes in.

“Tell me a story, Professor.” Pope lies down with his head in Tom’s lap and looks up at him.

Tom smiles and brushes Pope’s hair back from his face then leaves his hand there. Pope is a little drunk, Tom can hear it in his voice, but it doesn’t bother him. Tom is a little drunk himself.

Tom takes a breath and picks up reading aloud where he left off when Pope came in: “‘I know the difference between a half-hour and a lifetime…’”

Tom is glad that’s where he stopped because it could have been awkward had Pope came in a few sentences earlier. If he had, Tom would be reading him, _I don’t want a tiny, perfect love. I want you._

He reads until Pope falls asleep then he puts the book aside. He’s almost finished, but it can wait another few days. Tom almost wakes Pope up, but then realizes this is actually the first time he’s ever seen the man sleep.

In the end, Tom turns off the lantern and drinks his whiskey in the dark until he, too, is ready for sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The scouting mission goes well and they make it out in one piece without a single shot fired. The way back is a three and a half mile slog through Lowcountry marshland—a watery backdoor to the place they were spying on. Tom goes with his rifle held at shoulder height and flinches every time something brushes against his legs. In the South, some of the things that live in the water want to eat you and he has a hard time shaking that thought. The mud is slippery beneath his feet, water the same temperature as that of a warm bath, although it smells about twenty times worse. This is primordial land here and what he smells is the decay of history.

On their way in they waded through the waterlogged and rotting remains of a Skitter. Tector took one look at the slimy chunks and snorted a laugh then declared it “gator bait”. That had about done Tom in because if an alligator could take down a Skitter then he didn’t want to think what one could do to him or Pope or Tector. Or all three of them. He’d walked much faster after that while Tector hummed, “A Country Boy Can Survive” until Pope told him to shut up with that shit-kicking hillbilly crap.

Five minutes later, Pope had been humming the same song… and cursing Tector in between. Tom and Tector had both laughed and since Tom’s always had a soft spot for shit-kicking hillbilly music, he started singing along. Soon after, Tector joined in and Pope damned them both to hell as sadists.

Once they’re back on the road, Tom takes a moment to _breathe_ now that he feels relatively safe in comparison to where he was. Then he shakes it off and begins walking with Pope and Tector back where they hid their bikes about two miles from where they entered the water. His pants are soaked through and uncomfortable, threatening to chafe with each step he takes. Tom can tell by the way Pope and Tector are walking that they, too, are experiencing similar discomfort. Tom almost laughs when he thinks of it as solidarity among fellow soldiers. He plucks at his wet shirt and grimaces as he keeps walking, mud building up like bricks around the wet soles of his boots as they pick up more dirt from the road.

By the time they make it to the motorcycles, they have at least dried off somewhat. Tom slumps though because now he has to get on Pope’s bike with him. They haven’t found a bike for Tom yet and told him that a horse was out. They have to move a hell of a lot faster sometimes than even a damn fast horse could run. Tom does not like motorcycles though he has learned to ride them since everything went tits up. However, he likes being a passenger on one even less; especially _Pope’s_ passenger. He is a terrifyingly unsafe driver and Tom really, really does not want to ride all the way back to Charleston with him. However, his only other option is Tector and he’s not much better.

Tom slides onto the back of the bike behind Pope after another minute spent sulking about it because to hell with it—he is allowed to sulk about unpleasantries on occasion. It’s his God-given right as a citizen of the planet Earth. He wraps his arms around Pope after making sure his helmet—he insisted on having one—is firmly affixed. Pope gives his hands a quick pat before cranking the bike. He yanks the handlebars around so quickly Tom feels his stomach lurch and then they’re spinning away in a hail of gravel, leaving behind a rooster tail of dust.

Tom bites his lip and mentally recites the Lord’s Prayer as the scenery whips by him dizzyingly fast. When Pope swerves around a pile of debris in the road a few miles later and barely slows down to do so, Tom starts saying it out loud: “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”

Pope hears him even over the roar of the engine and whip of the wind and his laughter carries back over his shoulder to Tom.

It’s late once they make it back to Charleston and Tom has had about enough thrills and derring-do from the back of a motorcycle to last him the rest of his life. The Berserkers have claimed an old garage right inside the city limits to store their bikes instead of roaring through town on them or worse—leaving them parked, unattended and at the mercy of whoever might happen along. Tom practically hurls himself off the back of the bike and staggers when his feet hit the floor. He’s panting like he’s out of breath and can feel the barest of tremors in his fingers.

“We _really_ need to discuss your driving,” Tom snarls once he’s caught his breath enough to speak.

Tector looks between Tom and Pope then backs away. “I’ll see y’all out there,” he says and then makes haste for the door.

Pope raises an eyebrow at Tom and ignores Tector’s quick retreat. “What the hell’s wrong with my driving?”

“What _isn’t_ wrong with your driving?!” Tom waves his hands around and knocks into his helmet with the knuckles on the left one. He yanks the helmet off and Pope snickers at him. Tom figures it’s because his hair is standing up all over his damn head right now, but he does not care. “That is the question you should be asking yourself. I swear to God, Pope, are you nuts? Like truly mentally unstable?”

“Whoa,” Pope says. He’s still sitting on the bike, looking like he was made to be there. Tom kind of wants to kick him for it. “Somebody needs a nap.”

“Oh, fuck you for that,” Tom says. “Fuck. You.” He points at Pope and moves closer. “You drive like a maniac, a real-deal _psycho_. I don’t even want to think about how many tickets you probably got before all of this happened. Did you even have a valid driver’s license? You are reckless and irresponsible; you showboat, you have no regard for the safety of anyone—including yourself—and you just… _You are a_ terrible _driver!_ ”

Pope blinks rapidly, eyes going big and Tom figures he’s about to start yelling back. Instead, he snorts once, twice and then he starts _laughing_. That only pisses Tom off more. He’s opening his mouth to yell at Pope for it, for his _blatant disregard of others_ when Pope swings himself off the bike, grabs Tom by the shirt and kisses him breathless.

“I love it when you get all self-righteous and indignant, Professor,” Pope says when he pulls back.

Tom’s still trying to catch his breath, but he manages to glare.

“That does not work on me,” he says.

Pope only smirks and leans in to whisper in his ear, “Did I scare you?”

“Yes, you did scare me!” Tom says. “That was _nuts_ , Pope.”

Pope snickers again and sits down on the bike, tugging at Tom’s belt loops so he’s between his knees.

“I’m soooo sorry,” Pope says as he holds Tom’s hips in his hands.

“No, you are not,” Tom says.

Pope sighs like he’s so very sad. Then he grins. “You’re right, I’m not,” he says. “It might’ve scared you, but I bet it got your blood pumping, too.”

“No one needs their blood pumping that much,” Tom says.

“You’re really gonna be a dick about this?” Pope asks.

“What did you expect me to do, give you a high-five?”

“I would’ve preferred that. Or a blowjob.”

“Gah, no, absolutely not.”

“Whoa, wait a damn minute here. Are you cutting me off?”

“Am I wh—” Tom blinks down at Pope and when it clicks, he comes as close to blushing as he has in _years_. “Oh. Ah… No. It’s just that I’m not doing that… any of that… right now and _especially_ not as a way to reinforce your belief that your awful driving is acceptable.”

Pope laughs again and Tom thumps him on the back of his head.

“Ow,” Pope says. “Jesus fuck, man.”

“Do you still like it when I get mad?” Tom asks.

Pope rubs his head, but his smile is unrepentant. “Yeah. It’s kind of a turn on.”

“You’re… you are hopeless.”

“I know,” Pope says. “I accept it.”

Tom rolls his eyes and steps away from Pope when he gets up again. He’s still mad, but he doesn’t put up a struggle when Pope takes his face in his hands and kisses him either.

“Tell ya what,” Pope says. “I’ll go debrief Weaver and you can go find Ben, let him know you’re all right.”

“That might curb you some favor,” Tom allows.

Pope puts his hand on his chest. “That’s it, talk nerdy to me.”

“Get out,” Tom says, smiling despite himself.

Pope kisses him again, a quick smack on the mouth then steps around Tom to leave. At the door, he turns so his face is in profile and something about it makes Tom’s breath catch in his throat. There’s light from somewhere catching along the bridge of Pope’s nose and the moisture in his eyes; it bounces off the curve of his bottom lip and bleeds to shadows as it goes down his neck into the hollow of his throat.

“I love you.” Tom blurts it out without thought and instantly snaps his mouth shut so hard his teeth clack together painfully. He told himself he wouldn’t say that anytime soon and _especially_ not right now when he is still legitimately irritated with Pope.

Pope goes still as a stone in the doorway, one foot halfway toward taking its next step—he’s frozen there, a statue in the bad light. Tom’s heart falls in his chest and he thinks, _Damn my mouth._ But then Pope smiles, a quick flash of white teeth that shine in the falling light.

“Well,” he says, musing. “That’s all right, Professor. Yeah, that’s all right.”

Tom’s heart instantly feels lighter even if it’s not the typical, _I love you, too_ back. It’s not even a confirmation or suggestion of such from Pope, but it’s not rejection either and that’s good. Still, _damn his fucking mouth_ ; he never meant to put either of them on the spot like this.

“I’ll see you later?” Tom can’t quite keep the question out of his voice.

“You can bank on it,” Pope says.

Then he leaves and Tom’s left with the smell of old grease and the sound of the motorcycle engines ticking down as they cool. He lets out a heavy breath, straightens his nasty clothes then heads out to go find Ben.

Ben isn’t that hard to find this time; he’s waiting around the outside of the shelter, talking to Deni. Tom taps him on his shoulder and when he turns, he lights up like a Christmas tree. Tom thinks it has to be one of the best damn feelings in the world to see his son smile at him like that, to know he’s happy to see him—to know he’s _there_ at all.

“You want to take another walking tour?” Tom asks Ben.

“Sure,” Ben says. He tells Deni that he’ll catch up later and then they’re off, Tom walking with his arm slung over Ben’s shoulders.

They talk about Tom’s mission and about what Ben’s been up to with the rebel Skitters. Ben asks if Tom ate and he tells him yes, Tector caught some fish with a little collapsible pole he had. Tom only ate one, but it was good enough and he doesn’t tell Ben that. A couple of months ago, he would not have eaten _any_ of the fish.

It’s a nice visit, but Tom’s distracted and Ben seems to sense that. When he tells him that he needs to get back, Tom has the strangest feeling that he is being let off the hook here. It’s not a good feeling to have.

“How about me and you grab lunch in the mess hall tomorrow then?” Tom says.

“Sure.” Ben smiles. “I can observe the dietary habits of _Dadus no-eatus_.”

“Really, Ben?” Tom gives him a flat look for that

“Sorry, Dad,” Ben says. “I was trying to make it feel like not such a big deal is all. I mean, I’m worried and I know you know I’m worried, but I don’t want you to think I’m totally freaked out by it or anything.”

Tom cups the back of his neck and squeezes.

“I understand,” he says. “To tell you the truth though, I’m tired of hearing about it at all. I know I don’t look so hot, but I don’t want to talk about that every time we see each other either. Do you think we can manage that?”

Ben looks up again and bites his bottom lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Sorry if I’ve been a pain.”

“You’re just concerned is all.” Tom leans forward and smiles at Ben. “But yeah, you’ve been kind of a pain about it. I’d do the same thing if it was you though. Thanks for looking out for me.”

“Always,” Ben says. He’s all wide-eyed earnestness now and Tom thinks he’s raised a pretty fine kid.

“Okay then,” Tom says. “I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.”

“Yep!” Ben smiles and turns away with a wave.

Tom heads back to the house after that and feels okay about things for a change. Once he’s back through the garden wall he feels even better when he sees the wink of Pope’s cigarette. In his black clothes, Pope would be nearly invisible if not for that. He’s standing in one of the rose beds, doing nothing as far as Tom can tell.

“How’d it go with Weaver?” Tom asks.

“He grunted a lot, asked questions through his teeth, said _I hate you_ without ever actually doing so. I’d say it went pretty well overall,” Pope says.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Tom says.

Pope snorts. “Yeah, he does. I know the signs.”

“If you say so,” Tom says. Tom knows Weaver isn’t a fan of John Pope, but he’s not actually sure if he _hates_ him. _Strongly dislikes_ might be a better way to put it.

“Uh-huh,” Pope says like Tom has just spoken the gospel truth. “You still pissed off?”

“Not really, no,” Tom says. “I do still think your driving is reprehensible though.”

Pope’s laugh is low and rough, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Want a drink?”

“Yes,” Tom says.

Pope passes him the bottle dangling from his other hand. Tom takes it, drinks deeply and when he lowers it, he sighs.

_Alcoholism runs in—_

_Shut up, I don’t want to think about it._

“Did you find Ben?”

“Yes,” Tom says. “He’s doing good. We’re doing good.”

“Well… good then,” Pope says. He scratches at his mud-caked shirt and grumbles. “I’m filthy.”

“So am I,” Tom says.

“I’ll make you deal: You sponge me off, I’ll sponge you off,” Pope says.

Tom coughs out a laugh around the neck of the bottle. “Sure,” he says after he’s drank more. He slips an arm around Pope’s neck and looks at him. “I can live with that.”

The words that fell out of Tom’s mouth earlier hang between them, but neither of them brings it up. Things don’t feel awkward or weird either, so Tom’s happy to leave it alone.

Pope puts his hands on his hips and tugs Tom so close they’re pressed together and when he kisses him, Tom goes with it easy as can be. He moans softly in the back of his throat when Pope’s grubby fingers skate beneath the tail of his shirt. Tom is considering suggesting they save sponging off for a little later because they’re only going to get dirty again.

Then he hears, “ _Dad!_ ” and his thought processes come to a grinding halt.

Tom jerks away and turns to find Ben on top of the garden wall, crouched there like a boy-shaped gargoyle as he looks down at them.

“Ben, hey,” Tom says, but then he stops because he has no idea how to follow that up.

He should have known something like this could happen—Ben followed him, he knows that as well as he knows his own name. And of course he did, why wouldn’t he? Ben isn’t stupid and Tom’s been lying to him for ages now—and getting progressively worse at it, too. Because he’s thought it a thousand times: he’s tired of trying to keep this a secret. He’s not been very careful going back to the house these last couple of weeks and he didn’t even think to _check_ if he was being followed. It seems Tom’s subconscious decided to take care of this whole nasty secret-keeping business for him in the end.

“What the hell?!” Ben demands. “Pope? You’re kissing _Pope_?”

“Ben, stop,” Tom says. “Just listen to me a minute, okay?”

“No,” Ben snarls at him. He jumps off the wall back to the street-side and Tom curses under his breath.

“Ben!” he hollers as he heads for the hole in the wall.

Ben’s halfway down the street before Tom makes it to that side, but when he calls his name again, Ben stops.

Tom jogs to catch up, his heart thudding hard in his chest when he draws close enough to see the look on Ben’s face.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Tom says. “I’m—”

“Did Mom know? Did Anne?” Ben says. “Did _anybody_?”

“Your mom knew,” Tom says. “I didn’t get a chance to tell Anne.”

“How can you be gay?” Ben waves a hand at himself and then throws his arm out, indicating the others that aren’t there, Tom figures. “I mean, you _really_ seemed to like women enough that you had _four_ kids.”

“I’m not gay, Ben,” Tom says. This is actually the easy part; this is the part that Ben isn’t freaking out about that much. He’s shocked and confused, but not _offended_ or _outraged_ like some people—even some peoples’ own children—would be. “I’m bisexual.”

“With _Pope_!” Ben yells. “You’re bisexual with Pope!”

“No, I’m bisexual, period; it’s just that I’m _with_ Pope.” Tom can tell by the look on Ben’s face that at least three-fourths of that was the wrong thing to say; from correcting him to actually saying he’s _with_ Pope. So, all right, all of it was the wrong thing to say.

“How long have you been doing this?” Ben asks. His voice is scarily calm. “With Pope.”

“Since… Since about a month after…” He grits his teeth, makes himself say it even though it hurts. “About a month after Matt died.”

“Holy fucking shit, Dad!” Ben’s outburst rocks Tom back on his heels. “You’ve been lying to us—to me—since the end of April or beginning of May. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Damnit, Ben,” Tom says. “You need to calm down.”

“No, I don’t need to calm down!” Ben glowers at him. “All you’ve done is lie and sneak around with that son of a bitch behind our backs. Behind _my_ back.”

“He’s not… Ben, if you just give him a chance then you’ll see that he’s not like what you think he is,” Tom says.

“So, he never said I needed to be thrown out of the Second Mass or that I’m a freak and a mutant and a _monster_?” Ben demands.

“I know he said some awful things, son,” Tom says. “But he’s _trying_. Think about it—when’s the last time he said anything mean to you? He’s trying to learn to be better about it. People can change, you know that.”

Ben sneers. “I can’t believe anything you’re saying to me right now.”

Tom holds his hands out, beseeching. “I know you feel betrayed right now and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. This is _why_ I didn’t tell you though—I didn’t know how to do it without upsetting you.”

“Oh, well, good job, _Dad_ ,” Ben says. 

“That isn’t fair, Ben,” Tom says. “You followed me here. But let’s forget about that, okay? Just try and give him a chance, please.”

“Why should I?” Ben asks. “He never gave me a chance.”

“He will though, I swear to you, he said he would,” Tom says.

“And you _believe_ him?” Ben asks. “You believe _Pope_?”

Tom hates the way he says Pope’s name like it’s something poisonous he must spit out.

“I trust him with my life,” Tom says.

Ben stumbles back like he’s been slapped. “Why?”

“Because he’s been good to me. He’s been good _for_ me,” Tom says.

“Are you in _love_ with him?” Ben’s voice is incredulous. He laughs, shrill and angry. “You are, aren’t you? You’re in love with Pope.”

Tom hesitates for a second and then he nods, hands held out with his palms up.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh my sweet fucking _Christ_!” Ben yells. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“There is nothing _wrong_ with me!” Tom yells right back. “I am a grown man and I can make my own decisions and I’m sorry if you can’t accept that just like I am sorry I’ve kept things from you and not been as good of a parent as I ought to be. I’m sorry you feel betrayed and let down, but this isn’t going to go away. Ben, I am begging you to _please_ try to give Pope a chance; get to know him, let him get to know you.”

“I can’t do this right now.” Ben’s voice cracks. “I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. I… I need to sort this out. Just. I need some time to _think_.”

“Ben—”

It’s too late, Ben has already turned on his heel and taken off running. The desire to chase him is there, but there’s no way Tom could catch him now if he doesn’t want to be caught. He listens to the sound of Ben’s footfalls until they are gone then walks back to the house and slumps against the outer wall. After a minute, Tom slides down until he’s sitting with his head in his hands.

Pope comes out a little while later and offers his hands to Tom. He takes them, lets Pope tug him up and lead him back through the hole in the garden wall and into the house. They end up in the library on the claret suede sofa. After awhile, Tom lays his head on Pope’s shoulder and he wraps his arm around Tom.

They don’t speak because there is nothing left to say.


	7. Brighter than Bombs

_Bite the nerve of the town_   
_for anyone so desperate. I repeat: I love him_   
_until_ I _fall into a coma._

— John Berryman   
“Dream Song 143”

Tom’s ears are ringing as all around him people scream and guns boom with the ratchet of automatic fire. There is smoke everywhere, making the bright afternoon appear swaddled in fog. Someone throws a grenade and a cluster of Skitters goes up in a hail of green blood and torn limbs and dirty shrapnel. There is fierce satisfaction in knowing they have died and Tom bares his teeth in a rictus of a grin as he pops out the clip on his weapon and snaps in a fresh one. His mind is floodplain of blood and anger and pain and he _will_ have his pound of flesh.

He doesn’t know where Ben is or where Pope is at and once in a while, these things slither into his red haze and threaten to distract him. Then he remembers that Hal was torn apart and he can’t think about Ben or Pope anymore. He can only think about how on some city street turned battlefield, pieces of his oldest son’s body were left to rot unless the wild dogs and rats got to them first.

Tom rises from behind his cover, screaming through his teeth; a primal sound of rage and pumps a couple of rounds through a Skitter’s eye as it scrabbles toward him in that speed freak crab run of theirs.

“Monsters!” Tom screams without hearing himself. “Fucking monsters, come and get me!”

There is Mech fire falling around him, bullets whizzing by his ears as he runs into the fray. He’s lost it and there is one small, soft voice whisper-screaming at him to please stop this, to please reign himself in. It says, _You weren’t ready for full active duty yet, Tom._ He thinks it sounds like one his dead wives, but funny story: he’s not sure which one. The history professor in him knows about this, about battle rage and the mind-emptying effect it has had on soldiers since the dawn of mankind. It swallows logic and reason, gobbles up every shred of self-preservation and propels the battler like a rocket toward death or insanity, but not without the soldier leaving a wake of devastation behind them.

There is a Mech headed right for him and Tom grits his teeth, bloody lips skinning back in a red snarl. He is covered in cuts and bruises and scrapes; there is a dead soldier whose name Tom cannot remember lying about five paces ahead and to his left. The Mech is bearing down on him and Tom looks away from the dead soldier and up into the cold metal face of the Mech. He opens fire on it, not thinking that he’s out of Mech-piercing rounds. He can only hear Weaver telling him that there was nothing they could do except gather up _most_ of Hal. And what constitutes _most_ any-goddamn-way? Was it bone or flesh? Internal organs or flaps of skin? What exactly is in that coffin beneath the field of yellow flowers?

The Mech fires on Tom, but it is just too far out of range to make a direct hit. The blow still kicks up hunks of pavement and twisted bits of metal from wrecked cars and bent light poles. Tom isn’t going to move, he’s going to stare this down, too. Even when a razor-fine edge of metal slices cleanly through his shirt and skims across his chest to leave a cut like a toothless grin that drools bright blood, he doesn’t move. When a huge piece of concrete lands shy of crushing his left side and jars his bones, Tom does not move. When a small chunk of glass buries itself in his cheek, _Tom does not move_.

But then he’s moving anyway, knocked off his feet and sailing through the air to land behind a barricade of wood and concrete blocks. In the smoke and dust and the film of blood in his left eye, Tom makes out Pope’s wavery face. He’s got blood running from his scalp that paints half his face slippery red and he’s glaring down at Tom.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

Tom can tell he’s yelling, people don’t open their mouths that widely when they’re speaking normally. He can’t hear him though because his ears are ringing and there’s a taste in his mouth like verdigris on old copper pennies. He’s got to get up, he’s got to rejoin the fight; one man alone will stand up and win this war because he’s got the wherewithal to take on the Espheni. No one else can do it; it _has_ to be him because they took his sons. Yes, plural because it was pneumonia that killed Matt, but it would not have happened if the aliens had not come; they are as responsible for his death as they are for Hal’s.

He’s pushing at Pope, struggling and panting, but Pope’s not putting up with it this time, not like he did in the nighttime garden when he let Tom pour out his grief through his fists. Instead, Pope rears back and punches him square in the face and _hard_. Tom feels his nose bust and tastes the rush of blood in the back of his throat, hot and salty. Then he’s drifting-sinking, slowly swaying down in a drunken floor-ward dance.

The last thing he hears is Pope, so far away even though he is kneeling on top of Tom, barking for someone to, “Get him out of here.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The first thing Tom notices is that it’s dark. For a second, he thinks he is dead, thinks: _This isn’t so bad._ Then he realizes his eyes are closed and there are sounds. At the same time he realizes that, the pain starts to creep into his mind and shoves him inexorably toward regrettable awareness. He’s laying on something that is both firm and has give to it. It takes his muddled thoughts a minute to organize that his head is in someone’s lap. The smell of cool air touched with the scents of burning motor oil, blood and smoke curls up his nose which is a throbbing beacon of pain in the center of his face.

He opens his eyes to a sky that looks like all the diamonds in the universe have been scattered across it. The light is enough to make him squint against the glare and the wash of pain it brings. Then the stars disappear, blotted out by a silhouette leaning over him.

“How nice of you to join us.” Pope’s voice is unmistakable and he sounds _pissed_.

“Hey,” Tom says. He reaches up to touch Pope only to have his wrist grabbed and gently pushed back. Tom frowns, but doesn’t fight him on it. Pope’s face is shadow-black with the light behind him, but Tom knows he is scowling at him. “How long was I out?”

“Long enough,” Pope says. He takes a long, slow breath and lets it out just as slowly. “You are a fucking idiot, Mason. You know that? A big fucking idiot.”

“What? How?” Tom frowns again. God, he feels stupid; like he’s walked in on the middle of a very complicated movie and has no idea how to catch up with the plot. “You hit me.”

“And I’m tempted to do it a-fuckin’-gain,” Pope says.

“Nice,” Tom says because what the hell else is there to say to that? Though there is one question that bears asking—that _must_ be asked. “Did we win?”

“Yeah,” Pope says. “We won.”

He leans over Tom and for half a second, Tom rests his hand on his back, feels the trembling tension in the muscles there. Then Pope bangs on the roof of the truck to make it stop.

“What are you doing?” Tom asks.

“Letting you ride this one out on your own now that I—Now that you’re awake,” Pope says as the truck comes to a stop, the shriek of worn brake pads enough to make Tom’s teeth hurt. “I cannot look at you right now.”

Then he’s up and gone, unceremoniously pushing Tom over onto an empty, wadded up ammo bag. Tom is shocked and yeah, he’s a little hurt and a lot confused because he has no idea what he did to Pope to make him this goddamn angry. It’s not Pope’s general bluster, his bark that usually never becomes a bite; this is the scary kind of mad that Tom’s only seen a few times. This is the kind of cold rage that could end in someone getting hurt if Pope doesn’t watch himself.

“Pope!” Tom hollers after him as he trots away into the dark.

Down the road a piece is another truck and from it comes the sound of the tailgate dropping. Tom can’t see, but he can hear fine and a minute later he listens as Pope kicks his bike to life. A second after that, the headlight pierces the darkness—pierces Tom’s blacked eyes. Tom is wallowing around, grunting at the pain and stiffness in his abused body as he fights to get up, hell-bent on going after Pope and _working this out_.

He jumps again when he feels a light touch on his arm. “Just let him go.” It’s Anthony; he was sitting with his back against the rear of the cab, half-hidden by more shadow and stacked supplies.

“What the hell is his problem?”

“You scared him,” Anthony says as he leans back into the shadows again, touch leaving Tom’s arm.

Tom watches Pope roar around the truck to take the lead in their convoy. The night feels much colder than it did a few minutes before as Anthony’s words play ring-around-the-rosies in his mind.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Once they are back in Charleston, Tom waves off well-intentioned medical personnel trying to check him over. His nose is sore, but it’s not broken and there’s nothing he can do for it other than let it heal. The piece of flying glass cut a small, roundish chunk out of Tom’s cheek, but it’s not big—about half the size of a dime—and a dab of some nicked antibiotic cream and a bandage will fix it right up. The cut on his chest needs stitches, but he can do that himself or with Pope’s help. Assuming Pope can—will—even look at him; he hasn’t seen him since he woke in the bed of the truck and isn’t entirely sure if that counts since it was all in shadows.

He disentangles himself as soon as he can and goes looking for Pope. He thinks he’ll find him giving the mission report to Weaver, but instead finds Tector and Anthony doing that. They invite him in, but Tom begs off, says that he thinks Anthony and Tector are perfectly capable of handling it. It’s the truth; they’re more than good enough to debrief Weaver. However, Tom does leave out that he actually doesn’t remember much about the battle; only blind rage and grief and a hunger for violence that consumed him.

Tom looks for Ben in the milling crowds of people both inside and out of the compound, but he doesn’t find him. He hasn’t seen his only surviving child since the night Ben found him with Pope. He’s caught glimpses of him, he’s called his name and run after him, but Ben never waits and always outruns him. It’s killing Tom a little more every day because he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

He goes back to the house he shares with Pope and finds him in the kitchen drinking whiskey like it is water and glaring at nothing. He’s got one lantern on the dimmest setting, so most of the kitchen is swathed in blackness.

“Hey,” Tom says after watching Pope drink for a minute.

Pope says nothing.

“Hey,” Tom tries again. “What’s going on with you?”

Pope still doesn’t speak though he does gift Tom with a rude scoffing sound in the back of his throat before he lifts the whiskey for another swallow.

Tom throws his hands up. “No, really, Pope, _what the hell_?”

“Fuck you, Mason,” Pope says. He turns and walks out the kitchen, sidestepping around Tom and batting his reaching hand away when he tries to touch his shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Tom scowls and follows after Pope. Moonlight streams through the boards over the windows and makes the house look haunted and beautiful. 

“You need to tell me what your problem is, Pope,” Tom says. He’s getting angry now; being bewildered and hurt and completely confused leads to such things as that. “This half-assed silent treatment doesn’t really seem like your style. Besides, last I checked, we were good.”

Pope stops a few feet in front of him and tilts his head back to stare into the well of darkness over their heads. The sound of him sucking the backs of his teeth is loud and echoes off the high ceiling. So does the sound of the whiskey sloshing when he lifts the bottle for another swallow.

Tom watches his moon-limned shape and remembers what Anthony said.

“Is it because I scared you?”

“Is it—” Pope cuts himself off with a harsh bark of laughter as he whirls on Tom. “No, it’s not because you _scared_ me, it’s because you’re goddamn fucking _retarded_!” He’s yelling already and Tom takes a surprised step back even as his own anger rises to meet Pope’s.

“How is it that I’m retarded for doing my _job_ , Pope?” Tom snarls as he retakes the step he lost and then moves forward two more. “I did nothing wrong out there.”

“You call running headlong into Mech fire doing nothing _wrong_?” Pope asks. He’s talking through his teeth and shaking lightly with his held back fury. “You call standing there and letting it fire on you while you take shots at it—shots that wouldn’t do you any damn good—doing nothing wrong? You call that shit _smart_ even? I call it crazy, Mason; I call it crazy and dangerous and _fuck-ing re-tar-ded_.”

Each clearly enunciated syllable lets Tom know that Pope is about two seconds away from well and truly losing it, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even remember doing the things that Pope has just described to him, but he doesn’t doubt it. There’s a vague muscle memory there and scabbed over wounds to suggest maybe he’s right. Maybe Tom did lose his shit out there in the field (full of yellow flowers—Tom gives a hard mental shove to rid himself of that intrusive suffix of thought).

But then he asks himself: _Does it really matter? If I did my duty then should it be such a problem?_ And he knows, he does, that part of that is because he wants an argument, part of it is because he hates to lose a fight of any kind. Mostly it’s because he’s stubborn and doesn’t like being called names.

“I did my part,” Tom says through gritted teeth. “I waged war; I killed Skitters and took out a couple of Mechs and so what if one fired on me? So fucking what if I got a little caught up? You have no _right_ being angry at me for doing my _job_.”

“I have every right to be mad at you when you lose your mind in the field and nearly fucking die on me!” Pope screams it at him and Tom, much to his chagrin, does jump this time.

“Oh bullshit, Pope,” Tom says even though there are warning lights going off in his head telling him to stop. He feels cold all over. Cold and empty, yet so afraid of _everything_ that he doesn’t know how to stop even though it hurts his throat to keep speaking. “Every time we go out there we go knowing that we might not come back. There’s nothing any of us can do to stop it. We’ve all got to die sometime, so don’t go getting your back up over me taking a wild shot at a Mech.”

Pope punches him so hard and so quick that Tom can honestly say he never saw it coming. He hits the floor with a surprised, pained grunt and before he can try to push himself up again, Pope is on him, pinning him to the floor.

“Not you, Mason, _not you_ ,” Pope says.

“Why?” The second Tom asks it he realizes he has made one more stupid mistake when it comes to Pope; he has missed one more vital clue and overlooked one more piece of the puzzle.

Pope shoves back to his feet and coughs out a laugh so bitter that it makes Tom’s mouth go dry. 

“Because I love you, too, motherfucker.”

The words are said in a raw rasp that rubs across the welling silence like sandpaper, like silk. Pope might as well have screamed them in Tom’s ear for the way they fill up his head, run into all the nooks and crannies of his brain until the reverberation hums like bass in his teeth. It leaves Tom dumbfounded, speechless, his heart swelling to the point of bursting as it sinks in.

Then he’s gone, disappearing up the stairs with clump-stomps of his engineer boots on the risers. Tom lies there in a stupor, with his mouth full of blood and his insides full of what feels like light but might be broken glass. He lies there and knows that Pope meant what he said. He heard it in the way the anger made Pope’s voice shake. He heard it in the way the fear, the almost heartbreak, made his voice crack.

It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t romantic, but it got the job done and Tom gets the point now. He thinks he got it all along but has been so wrapped up in being a half-suicidal headcase that he overlooked it. He doesn’t know if there is a way he can ever apologize for that. There never was a card invented to say, _Hey, so… Sorry I’m nutshit._

From upstairs comes the sound of things breaking in one of the guestrooms they’ve yet to do any work on. Now they’ll have even more to do when they get to it, but Tom only swallows the blood in his mouth and pushes himself to his feet. He needs to go get a lantern so he can see to stitch the cut on his chest. Pope needs to let off some steam, needs to let the rage and fear pour out of him. Tom caused the problem, but he cannot fix it right now, all he can do is give Pope his space and let him go. He wishes he could turn back the clock to even ten minutes ago, but there’s not even that much to be done.

“Good going, Mason,” Tom mutters. He takes a lantern and a bottle of whiskey before going into the downstairs powder room that they use as their in-home med-bay to tend his wounds.

Tom gets his chest stitched and bandaged; the sutures are crooked, but they’ll hold. He sits on the claret sofa, sipping from a bottle of whiskey—not looking for oblivion, only calm. Periodically he tips his head back to look at the ceiling. He wonders what’s going on up there now; for a while there were crashes and curses and thump-thud-slams—the racket of Pope destroying the guestroom. At last there was the slamming of a door, the clomp of heavy boot soles falling on the wood floor. Tom followed the sound of Pope’s footsteps to their bedroom. Then there was nothing.

That was half an hour ago.

This terrible silence is starting to seep into Tom’s pores like crude oil and stick to his nerve endings. He cannot leave this where it is and he should have known that Pope wouldn’t try to work it out. He’s afraid of his own feelings, Tom has learned that. It’s sad that anyone should be so terrified of their humanity that they continually try to deny it.

Enough.

Tom rises from the sofa and goes upstairs. Pope might be willing to let this go, let it dangle in all its broken glory, but he is not. Something so big cannot be left unacknowledged. Tom doesn’t want to leave it be.

He makes his way in the dark to their bedroom and pushes the door open. The light from a lone three wick candle (another candle shop find) sits on the dresser; only two of the wicks are still burning. The candle smells like fresh cut grass, sweet-sharp and full of memories of long ago summer afternoons.

Pope is lying on the bed crooked, his feet dangling off the side onto the floor. He has his hands over his face, fingers threaded and snarled in his long hair like he’s been pulling it and has only now relaxed his fingers. He makes no indication that he knows Tom is there, but Tom knows better and goes to sit beside him.

Tom leans forward, elbows on his bony, skinned knees, fingers laced together and dangling in the gap between them. He peers into the shadows like all the answers will come waltzing out in blue and red, like in the Plath poem, except that was stars. All Tom has though are leaping grotesqueries that gambol along the walls like a sideshow act in Hell.

When the minutes stretch close to half an hour, Tom grows tired of this, too. It seems that this time Pope will out-stubborn him and when he thinks about it— _really_ thinks about it—then that is the way it should be. Pope did not confess his love in any way resembling romantic, but it was sincere and raw as an open wound.

Tom touches Pope’s forearm lightly, grazing warm skin with his fingertips. Only then does Pope jerk and make a sound. Tom stills his hand, but when Pope doesn’t pull away from him, Tom strokes his fingers back up until he can take Pope’s hand in his. He feels the crust of dried blood on his knuckles, still slightly moist, the scabs unset, but he doesn’t care and he draws Pope’s hand away from his face.

He kisses Pope’s abraded knuckles, tasting the gypsum of plaster dust and the rusty tang of old blood gritting against his lips. It’s the closest anyone can ever come to truly tasting the soul of another.

“I’m sorry,” Tom whispers as he turns Pope’s hand to press his lips to his palm. “So sorry for what I did.”

Pope is silent, but Tom’s eyes are open and he can see that Pope’s are as well. He’s taken his other hand from his face and is watching Tom. He feels Pope’s fingers when they brush his cheek and the shudder that goes through him is one of relief. Pope allowing himself to be touched is one thing, but Pope touching him back is better.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says again as kisses his way down to the inside of Pope’s wrist. He feels it bears repeating now that he’s got the whole picture, now that he has put the puzzle together.

“Stop saying that,” Pope says.

Tom smiles to himself, remembering similar happening between them before.

“No.” Tom lets go of his hand and leans down to look into his face, smiling when Pope brings his hand up to touch the side of his neck. Pope’s calloused thumb strokes along the tendon as Tom leans down to kiss him. “I’m sorry,” he breathes against Pope’s lips.

Pope leans up and crushes his mouth to Tom’s, partly to get him to shut the hell up, Tom figures. It makes him smile into the kiss then moan when Pope sucks lightly at his tongue, fingers squeezing the back of his neck, possessive and unmistakable.

They move around until they are in the middle of the huge bed, lost in the sea of rumpled sheets and their one lone blanket. Fall is coming, but it is doing so at a snail’s pace. The air is still cool enough that goosebumps prickle along Tom’s skin when he takes his shirt off. Pope’s hands shape the curves of his shoulder blades and smooth down his ribs, pushing the gooseflesh away.

Tom unfastens Pope’s belt and undoes his fly, slipping his hand inside to stroke him. They are exhausted and sore and covered in the grime of a hellish day. For a little while Tom forgets those things though because all he wants is _right now_ ; to hell with the rest—he’ll worry about it and the fate of the world later.

When Pope reaches for him, Tom shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says.

This is for him; he _wants_ to do this. He lowers his head and licks Pope’s cock then takes him into his mouth one slow inch at a time. He’s still new to this whole business, but he’s learning and Pope’s hissed-in breath tells him he is learning _well_. A pleased ripple runs through Tom as he slides back up Pope’s length, reminding himself that he likes firm, even pressure.

Pope strokes his fingers through Tom’s slightly greasy hair; they are both as filthy as they are tired, but it doesn’t matter. Especially not when Pope squeezes the back of Tom’s neck again with one hand and pulls at his shoulder with the other. Not when they are like this, precome hot and thick on Tom’s tongue and his cock so hard it throbs with each aching heartbeat. _This_ he realizes, is where he always wants to be, right here with Pope in the bad light with the cold, white stars hanging outside their boarded up window.

Tom moans and rocks against Pope’s leg without thinking, curling his fingers against Pope’s hip and swallowing when he thrusts lightly into his mouth. He’s being careful, but this is still strange territory for Tom and he almost doesn’t manage it. His eyes water, but he carries on, listening to Pope’s breath and the soft curses that fall from his lips. He says Tom’s name and he moans again before he can help it. He _likes_ doing this, he’s starting to get that now; he likes that he can do this to Pope and make him come apart under his hands—under the touch of his mouth.

“Come here,” Pope says. He tangles his fingers in Tom’s hair and pulls ever-so slightly. It should be annoying, but damnit if Tom doesn’t find he likes that, too.

Tom slides up Pope’s body and kisses him, moaning again when Pope cups him through his jeans and massages. Tom rocks against Pope’s hand as he licks and sucks the taste of himself from Tom’s mouth. They are breathless and panting when they pull apart to finish undressing. Tom grabs the lube from the nightstand drawer and moves back to Pope.

When Pope takes the lube from him, Tom swings one leg over Pope’s. He leans forward when Pope presses two slick fingers to his opening then rocks back, taking them inside with a gasp. He fucks himself slowly on Pope’s fingers, each push inside and draw out makes him want even more, but he means to take his time, means to make it last until they snap and Pope has made no indication he feels differently.

He’s moaning openly, low, throaty sounds as he tilts his head back even as he touches Pope’s arm, a silent signal to stop. He removes his fingers and Tom arches his back with a shiver. He picks the lube up and squeezes some into his hand, Pope watching him with heavily lidded eyes. His breathing is slow and deep but changes in pitch when Tom lifts up to reach his cock and wrap his slippery fingers around it. He strokes Pope, taking his time about it until Pope thrusts through the ring of his fingers and Tom’s breath catches.

He holds the base of Pope’s cock as he begins to sit back on it. Tom winces a bit as his body stretches to accommodate th thickness of Pope’s cock, which is not at all the same as two fingers. He breathes out through his nose and focuses on the sensation of being filled; something that is still new enough to him that he’s not grown totally used to it yet; has not lost his heated fascination with the feeling. He shudders and moans when he has taken the last inch and stops to catch his breath. He is full and wanting, breath hitching in his throat as he looks into Pope’s eyes.

Tom begins to move, riding Pope slowly, but taking him deep with every thrust. It makes him whimper and bite his bottom lip as he sits up straight, the angle and depth different this way than it is leaning forward. Tom leans backward more, arching his spine, the birdcage of his ribs pressing against his skin.

It’s hard to miss how thin he has become. He’s eating again, but gaining the weight back is slow work because he is always so busy, so _go-go-go_ that he burns up most of the calories he is consuming. But here with Pope he does not care, here he is arching himself back even more, back until he has his hands on Pope’s legs.

Tom is showing Pope all of himself; he is letting him see the scars and protrusions of bone; the jutting sweep of his pelvis, the washboard ripple of his sternum. He is letting Pope see his cock sliding in out of Tom who is gasping and moaning, fighting to hold on though he wants to close his eyes and ride the pleasure.

Pope is thrusting up into him, hands against Tom’s calves to help brace him. Tom’s voice cracks in his dry throat as sweat slides through the dry riverbed spaces between each rib.

He closes his eyes as Pope’s thrusts become faster, as he slides his hands up the backs of Tom’s calves, over his knees to the tops of his legs. He pulls Tom down tighter to his body, hands pressing against the sweat-slicked skin of Tom’s trembling thighs. Tom’s cries disappear into the darkness over their heads, lost against the high ceiling. Pope moves his hands up Tom’s thighs and before he fully realizes what is happening, Pope sits up and his arms slip around Tom’s waist.

He gasps then cries out again as Pope sits back and pulls him down tight against his body, their chests pressing together. He sucks the startled, gasping moan at the sudden change in angle right out of his throat as he kisses him. Pope’s thrusts barely falter despite the sudden change in position and Tom’s pleasure only intensifies. Their moans echo inside each others mouths, the sweaty smack and slap of their skin is filthy and brilliant. They are pressed tight together, Pope’s hands against his hips, pulling at him each time he thrusts inside.

Tom holds onto him and tilts his head back, mouth open, throat raw from cries and lungfuls of air being drawn down it. Pope kisses and bites at his throat and Tom whimpers, moans as he hears what he is growling out between pinching bites, scrapes of his teeth.

It’s too much, too much sensation, too much _everything_ and Tom is shaking all over like his very atoms are rattling him apart. He looks down at Pope until he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. Pope pulls him down again and Tom presses his face to his shoulder, gasping and almost writhing against him.

“Shh,” Pope says, soothing more than _silencing_. He presses his mouth to Tom’s ear as he thrusts up and stays that way, grinding against him until Tom’s voice is rising toward a scream, the pressure—the pleasure—unrelenting, almost unbearable.

“Pope… I…” Tom’s voice is wrecked.

“Shh…” Pope says again, soothing, caressing the length of Tom’s back even as he snaps his hips against his ass and draws another hitching cry from him. “I love you, too, Professor.”

And that’s it, Tom is done, he is a million little pieces bucking and jerking against Pope as he comes. Pope holds him, one hand cradling the back of Tom’s head, the other resting at the small of his back. He kisses Tom’s sweaty temple and moves inside of him, quick and hard until he sucks in a breath and lets it out on a long, low moan that he breathes wet and hot against the side of Tom’s neck.

They lay there, a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs and Pope holds Tom, rocks their bodies slowly from side to side. When Tom at last opens his eyes again he has no idea how much time has passed, but the sweat has cooled and grown sticky on his skin; another wick on the candle has gone out, drowned in a rising pool of wax. He touches Pope’s face with the tips of fingers pressed gently against the ridge of his cheekbone. He nuzzles him then gives a soft, openmouthed kiss that Pope returns with lazy flicks of his tongue.

Tom lifts up and moves off Pope with a soft wince then lies down beside him, turning to press against his side and loop his arm over his waist. They are even filthier now—frankly they stink—but they’re too sated and content to move any more than that. In the weak, guttering light, Tom smiles and rests his head on Pope’s chest. He doesn’t need to ask to know that their fight—such as it was—is over. Pope lightly scratches Tom’s back in a lazy, meandering arc as they doze and eventually drift off to sleep together.


End file.
